


Bones and The Hobgoblin

by tprillahfiction



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: AU, M/M, pre-Academy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-09-12
Updated: 2010-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-11 17:35:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/114907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tprillahfiction/pseuds/tprillahfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>23 year old Spock drives a big-rig semi-truck (yes!) across the United States on his way to enter Starfleet Academy.  In route, he meets a mysterious stranger. The pair have further adventures in San Francisco.  (My "epic" buddy buddy, love story)  AU. Pre-Academy days, featuring a young Nimoy!Spock (which can be read as Quinto!Spock too) and young Kelley!McCoy. This is slightly wierd (cracky) in places but it has serious elements, too.  Spock/McCoy slash (first time) suicide attempt, drug usage. Features some 21st century technology. Early chapters feature some trucker lingo.<br/>Chapter 10 coming within the next several days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The 'Pete'

He's got his Peterbuilt T-387 tractor-trailer on a road just outside Atlanta.

He is about to enter the on-ramp to the interstate when he spots the lone hitch-hiker, thumb struck out in the traditional pose. The hitchhiker is shirtless in the hot Georgia sun, thin hips attired in low slung, tight blue-jeans. A cowboy hat, aviator sun-glasses, and brown suede working man's cowboy boots complete the ensemble. There's a sign held up high and written on in heavy black ink: 'San Francisco!' He pulls his rig over and brings it to a stop on the side of the road.

The hitchhiker jogs up to the passenger side window. "Nice Pete," the man says approvingly, peering in. "Goin' my way?"

"Obviously, since I did indeed stop," the driver states, mildly. The hitch-hiker takes that as an invitation to get on in. He opens the up the passenger side door, clambers in, throws a black duffle bag behind him in the sleeper area, and gently drops a small leather case onto the floor in front of him, making himself right at home in the passenger seat. Red and white checked boxer shorts peak out of his waistband above the jeans. The stranger appears to be in his late twenties or early thirties, though there are bags under his blue eyes, of which are unusual for a human of his age, along with a deeply furrowed brow.

"Afternoon," the stranger says affably.

"Hello."

"Been standing out there in the heat for hours. Nobody else's even slowed the fuck down for little ol' me," the stranger explains unnecessarily and the driver nods back, glances in his side-view mirror, checks that there is no traffic in the way and gets onto Interstate 20. After a few moments he looks over at his new passenger, seeing that the hitchhiker's been staring intently at him. "Just how far along you goin'?"

"I am headed to San Francisco," the driver replies.

"All the way, huh? Well, ain't I lucky."

"Indeed."

"Thought you was a Kenworth at first," the man says. "But you just a 'T-2 me too', aint'ya." The hitch-hiker's laughing hysterically or nervously, with an undercurrent of bitterness. The driver raises a curious eyebrow. The stranger has a lilt to his voice, a cadence that appears to affect the most of the local residents of this locale, however this man's drawl is thicker than most.

"Does the make and model of my motor vehicle make a difference?"

"Not at all, friend." There is a tiny smile from the man as he pulls a silver flask from his pocket, drinks from it, puts it back into his pocket. "What'cha haulin'?"

"Equipment."

"Didn't your mama ever tell you never to pick up hitch-hikers?"

"No. Should I not have?"

There's a long silence before the stranger offers his name: "McCoy."

"I am Spock," the driver returns.

"Well, it's mighty nice to meet ya," McCoy says, holding out his hand. The driver does not acknowledge the proffered hand so McCoy eventually drops it and clears his throat. "Spock, huh? Never heard that name before."

"Never-the-less, it is my name."

"Sho-nough is." After another long, awkward silence, McCoy says: "So...Just passing though 'Hot Lanner', huh?"

"Affirmative."

"Where you from?"

"Vulcan."

"Vulcan?" McCoy scratches the stubble on his jaw with slightly open lips. "Which one? Michigan, Missouri or Canada?"

"I am from the planet Vulcan. Near 40 Eridani."

"I know what star it is," McCoy replies. "So... you're one of those folks who doesn't have any emotions and follows logic exclusively."

"That is our aim," Spock replies faintly, does not elaborate. He does not wish to delve into further explanations at the moment, the operation of this motor vehicle takes up most of his attentions due to his newly acquired commercial lisence. Driving a land rig is more difficult than he had initially presumed due to the activity of other smaller land vehicles on the roadway, who insist on tailing him most dangerously (illogically) or whipping around to cut him off, or the annoyance of low clearance on some bridges.

As he drives, he is most uncomfortably aware of the stranger staring at his head. His black knitted beanie he has been wearing consistantly is pulled down to cover his ears and he pulls it down even further in a slightly protective gesture. McCoy is still staring hard at him, perhaps attempting to discern for himself if the ears are indeed pointed. "They are," Spock eventually finds himself telling him.

"Huh? What you on about?"

"My ears. They are pointed."

"Oh…right. Don't mean to stare." As Spock glances over, he notices that McCoy is raising an eyebrow in much the same way he does himself. "What the hell's a Vulcan doin' on Earth, driving a Peterbuilt land rig? Out in the middle of fuckin' nowhere?"

Spock sighs, hesitates before he answers. He does not know if he should share his personal life with this stranger he has just picked up. "I am working this route to acquire passage from New York to San Francisco. I did not have the funds to beam there directly, I took this job recently, the only available job there was to earn my own passage to the west coast."

"Oh..." McCoy says softly, takes a long swig out of his flask.

"Why are you headed to San Francisco?" Spock enquires politely.

"Just…am." McCoy says nothing more, looks out the window and periodically continues drinking out of his flask.

They hit Birmingham, Alabama where McCoy seems to perk up. "Rest stop round here somewhere."

"I am aware."

"Don'chya have to pee?"

"Negative."

"Well I do. Not good to sit for hours and hours without urinating like that."

"I am able to forgo many human bodily functions."

"Well, I can't."

"Very well, we shall make a brief stop. Sixty seconds maximum."

"Fine. Time me on my mark." McCoy removes his cowboy hat and tosses it over to Spock, pulls on a white button shirt and a leather jacket from his duffle bag. "Alright start it." McCoy races out then swiftly returns. They are on their way once again. "How long?"

"Seventy seven point two seconds."

"Took me a bit of time to button up my fly. Damn things are vintage 501's."

Spock rolls his eyes and does not answer.

McCoy is peering at the roadway suspiciously. "Kinda quiet round here. You gotcha ears on?"

"My ears?" Spock reaches up to touch his hat once again.

McCoy chuckles and clears his throat. "Your CB radio," he says much more clearly with much, much less of the regional drawl though it is still apparent. "Aren't you listenin' for bear reports?"

"There are ursus arctos on this stretch of highway?"

"No, no, no. Not real bears. Smokey Bears," McCoy explains to him. Spock still seems incredulous so he adds: "You are new at this, ain't ya? State Troopers. You see, the other drivers will be on the CB and on the lookout for them and they might give us a heads up. We are traveling rather fast, Spock, might-nigh on a hundred now. Troopers haunt these highways."

"We are only ten kilometers over the speed limit. I prefer the radio to remain off. I am certain we shall be--" There's a siren in the distance and Spock nearly frowns into his rear-view mirror at the sight of the red and blue lights.

"Let's see if you can't talk your way out of this bear-trap, Vulcan."

They pull over, stop and wait. A uniformed woman with a state trooper hat, strides up to the passenger side door. "License and registration and log PADD please," she says sternly. Spock reaches into the glove compartment, pulls them out and hands them over. "Alright, where's the fire?"

Spock begins to answer the trooper truthfully, that there is no fire in this vicinity, not that they would know of any-- as they are driving a semi truck, and not a fire truck, per se-- till McCoy cuts him off with a 'good ol' boy' thick Georgia drawl and a smile (as wide as Texas). "Only in those lovely blue eyes of yours. Ma'am."

Somehow-- and Spock does not understand the language used nor the lustful looks delivered between the two-- McCoy manages to talk the trooper out of giving them a citation.

Soon they are on their way once again.

"Well, shit," McCoy observes. "Didn't think sweet-talkin' a ladybear would work in this day and age."

"She obviously found you attractive."

"S'pose so. Though, I can't see why she would."

After a moment, McCoy goes onto the radio, once the ladybear has passed them by, and gleefully describes the avoidance of said traffic citation to other drivers conversing with him on the CB. Again, the language used by McCoy is indeed odd. The only thing Spock can actually understand is the name of McCoy's CB 'handle'. "Your CB name is 'Bones'?" Spock asks him.

"That's right." There's a slight hiccup from McCoy. "Bones. It's, uh, all I've got left...my bones."

"Ah…" Spock does not ask him further, and again, the man does not elaborate, falling into another sullen silence.

Eventually they roll into Jackson, Mississippi. "You don't wanna hit that rest stop. Place is crawling with lot lizards," McCoy warns him rather sternly.

Whatever McCoy is describing, it does not sound desirous. "Duly noted." Spock drives on.

"So...what's your handle?" McCoy asks him as they near Dallas, Texas.

"I do not possess a CB handle."

"You drive a rig and you don't have a CB handle? You for real?"

"I am a Vulcan. We do not have CB handles."

"Bullshit. We need to get you a handle," McCoy insists. It seems to be of some importance to him. "We'll think of somethin'." He sees the signs for Interstate 36 and reaches out to touch Spock's arm. "Hey, take that one, we'll get over to I-40 and go straight though Oklahoma City. Faster that way. Trust me."

Spock had initially plotted a course based on trajectory, variable speed and logic. He does not know how McCoy knows this is the better route, or if this is actually the case, however he ultimately decides to trust the stranger. There is something about this Human, something reassuring emanating from the man's touch. Spock quickly makes the change into the onboard computer.

* * *

They've now been traveling for thirty-three hours. He is able to drive for longer periods, specially cleared by his trucking company. McCoy has nodded off in the passenger seat. For the man's sake, he decides to hit the next truck stop, spying a 'Flying J Truck Stop' advertisement on the interstate. He reaches over to tap the dozing McCoy on the shoulder in the same manner the Human had done to him previously. McCoy wakes up, with a fearful, almost feral look in his eyes. The eyes are extremely bloodshot, dark circles running underneath them.

"I am stopping for the night," Spock explains, and McCoy relaxes at that. "We will be able to eat and perform our ablutions here."

McCoy shifts awkwardly in the seat, stretches and yawns. "You go ahead. I'll wait outside. I... uh... I actually don't have any credits on me."

Spock hands him a card. "Use this, you appear to be hungry."

McCoy nods gratefully and admits: "I could eat a horse. Could really use a shower, too."

Spock nods. "I noticed."

McCoy shoots him a look, heads into the sleeper to retrieve his small duffel bag. "You comin' or what?"

"I shall follow you in, shortly. I need to make a notation in my logs."

"See ya in a bit." McCoy opens the passenger door, jumps out, shuts the door.

As he is making a notation in his PADD, a ringing noise emanates from McCoy's black leather case left behind in the foot well of the cabin. It is merely a cell-phone, or other communications device. One does not need to bother. It shall eventually quiet on its own. However, the item in question keeps up it's insistent ringing. Spock hesitates about delving into the bag, doing so would be violating the man's privacy, but still it will not quiet.

He opens up the case, and as careful as he tries to be, the contents ultimately wind up spilling out onto the passenger seat. Locating the ringing cell-phone, he shuts it off and prepares to put the remainder of the objects back into the case. His fingers pause at the unusual objects.

A hypo spray. Vials of an unrecognizable drug. A medical scanner.

It appears, that most likely, McCoy is either ill, requiring regular dosages-- or quite possibly the man is a drug addict.

But there are two more objects remaining on the seat. He picks up a gold wedding band with a ruby stone in the center and places it gently back into the case, picks the final object up and studies it. It is a badge--a hospital badge, (University of Southern Georgia) with McCoy's image on it, and the man's name:

Leonard McCoy, M.D.

* * *

He spots the freshly showered McCoy in the cafe. After selecting a portion of vegetarian food for himself from the self-serve food bar, he rejoins the human half way though a huge steak and baked potato and green beans. The man was not exaggerating when he'd intimated he was famished. McCoy looks up, smiles as he sits down at the table across from him. "Evening, Spock."

He nods back. "Doctor."

Abruptly McCoy slaps his hand onto the table, a few other truckers look up from their meals, then back down again. McCoy hisses: "Don't ever call me that."

"It is a title of respect. You are a physician, are you not?"

"I don't deserve that title. Not anymore."

Spock raises an eyebrow. "Would you care to ellucidate?"

"No." There's another heavy silence as McCoy's appetite appears to wane and he stops eating.

"Please finish your dinner, Dr. McCoy."

"I am not hungry." The doctor's voice is much different now. There is not a trace of the earlier thick Georgia drawl, the tone is much more clipped--a harder edge to the consonants. "I will get it to go and finish it later."

"As you wish." There is a silence. "What is the medication in the vials?"

"Mind your own business. You just had to go snooping through my things, didn't you?"

Spock's eyes are downcast as he says: "My apologies."

McCoy stands up. "I'll meet you back at the truck."

Spock finishes his meal, takes a very quick sonic shower in the pay restroom, then makes his way back to where he is parked. McCoy is no where to be found. Perhaps he is inside the rig.

The black leather case that was sitting on the passenger seat is now missing, McCoy is also not here. Spock searches the vicinity of the parking lot, searches back inside the truck stop cafe. He finds himself searching the parking lot once again. It starts to pour down rain. Spock finds he must abandon the search and seek shelter inside the cabin. He sits in the driver seat, makes more notations into his log book, glances out of the window into the night sky.

Hours later the passenger door opens, McCoy hops up and in. "Cold as a witch's tit out there," he mutters.

"Where did you go?"

"Just out for a walk."

"You are soaking wet."

"It's raining."

"Obviously, Doctor."

McCoy huffs and bristles once again. "Dammit! Told you to stop calling me that. I'm not… a doctor anymore."

Spock gets up and goes into the sleeper part of the cabin and retrieves a towel. "Regardless of what you may be at the moment, you must disrobe, and dry off."

Rather than argue further, McCoy nods, pulls off his white button down shirt, his white undershirt, his boots, jeans, and socks but hesitates at his boxer shorts, finally removes them too and drops the lot to the floor of the cabin. McCoy stands there naked with a challenge in his blue eyes. "If I would have known you were gonna stand there gaping at me while I strip, I'd a put on some music." There's a tired smile as McCoy dries his hair then pulls the towel around his waist. He sits down on the bed in the sleeper, with Spock still watching him, pulls on a fresh pair of boxer shorts from his duffle bag, a blue pair this time.

Spock bends down and picks up and deposits the wet clothing into a spin dryer in a compartment in the sleeper. "Do you possess an additional set of clothing?"

"Nope. What I had on is it." McCoy goes over to sit down in the passenger seat. "Pretty warm in here." He looks at the armrest of the seat. "This thing recline?"

"You may sleep on the bed," Spock offers.

"No, that's alright--you're the one driving. You need the bed more than I do."

"It is large enough, so that we may both share."

McCoy licks his lips, thinks for a moment, then gets up, comes back to the bed. "Alright. But I'm not giving you a blowjob in exchange for passage, so don't get any ideas."

Spock removes his black skinny trousers, his sneakers, his striped long sleeved shirt, but leaves his underwear and socks and hat on. He comes over to sit down on the bed next to the now reclining McCoy and wonders: "Blowjob?"

"Yeah, you don't what a blowjob is?"

"Is that a euphemism for sexual intercourse?"

"Oral sex. Specifically." McCoy clears his throat.

"Ah."

"So…uh, you look young. How old are you?"

"I have twenty-three Earth years."

"Oh now...you just a kid, ain't ya? How long you been here on Earth?"

"Approximately two standard earth weeks."

"Well, that explains a lot." McCoy scoots over on the bed to make room. "Goodnight."

* * *

It's stormy outside the cabin. Spock lies awake in the dark, listening to the rain's patter on the metal of the cabin wall above and watching over his bedmate's uneasy sleep. McCoy appears to be more comfortable huddled up against him. Spock finds himself allowing this physical contact but eventually lays a hand on him to wake up the man, who now appears to be suffering a nightmare.

"Sorry," McCoy says as he sits up and pulls away. "Didn't mean to cuddle with you."

"It is of no consequence."

The deluge outside appears to increase and with it comes thunder. "It's really coming down out there."

"Where is your wife?" Spock suddenly asks him.

"How'd ya know I was married?" It takes a minute to dawn on McCoy. "Oh, you were snooping--you saw my wedding ring."

"How long have you been estranged?"

"Estranged?" McCoy snorts. "Not long."

"Why did you leave her?"

"Look," McCoy snaps. "If it will get you to stop asking me so many fucking questions, maybe I'll go ahead and give you that blowjob."

There's an awkward silence after that and McCoy adds: "I was kidding."

"Ah."

"Why are you headed out to California, anyways?" McCoy demands.

"I wish to enter Starfleet Academy," Spock replies. "Why are you traveling to California?"

"No particular reason."

"I see."

"You done with the interrogation, Spock?"

"As long as you are not a murderer, I am satisfied," Spock replies.

"You afraid of me Spock? Well..." McCoy appears to tease. "Didn't think Vulcans got afraid an' all."

"I am not afraid, however, I am curious." He does not admit to the stranger, but he...now feels, uneasy...

"Well." There is a bitter laugh from McCoy. "Maybe I am." He laughs again even harder. "Let's get some sleep, huh?"

_______________

On to Chapter 2


	2. An Education in Human Behavior

_Part II_

McCoy tosses and turns in his sleep and softly cries out: "Joss..." Spock lightly touches the sweaty bare shoulder and the man wakes up with a start. "Nightmare?"

"You called out for your wife, I believe."

McCoy abruptly sits up, mutters an expletive and pulls out of Spock's grasp. He walks over to the dryer, opens it, pulls out his now wrinkled jeans, socks, boots, shirt and jacket, shoves everything on without a word. He heads out of the rig and slams the door behind him.

It's 3.2 hours later and McCoy has not yet returned. Spock steps out of the truck and into the crisp, night air. The rain has faded to a light drizzle. He finds McCoy leaning against the side of the rig near the rear of the trailer, tossing his flask up and catching it and dreamily looking up at the sky, saying more to himself, in a slightly slured voice: "In this galaxy, there's a mathematical probability of three million earth type planets... and in all the universe, three million, million galaxies like this one...and in all of that, perhaps more... only one of each of us...so why am I so..."

He sighs, says with some disapproval: "I do not care for the odor."

"Well 'scuse the hell out of me. That's all you have to say, huh?"

"Is it really necessary to imbibe, Doctor?"

"Oh, it's necessary." McCoy tosses his empty flask over to the Vulcan as he holds the rolled up cigarette to his lips again, taking a heavy drag. "I'm all out of booze and I'm desperate. And, I told you to stop calling me Doctor." McCoy turns an extremely bloodshot eye to glare at Spock and holds out the cigarette. "Here. Have some."

Spock looks away.

"That's fine. More for me." McCoy holds it to his lips again.

Spock watches every move the human makes with curiosity. "Why are you headed to San Francisco?" he asks the man once again.

"Nosey fucker, ain't ya. I just thought... I'd...start over," McCoy, still looking up at the stars, says with some finality: "With everything."

"Perhaps you should enter Starfleet."

"With you?" McCoy snorts with derision. "Yeah right."

"Why not?"

"Starfleet," McCoy sniffs. "You realize how dangerous being on a starship is? One tiny crack in the hull and--" He drags his hand across his neck. "It's not like driving a rig, you can't simply pull over to the side of the road when something goes terribly wrong out there."

"Doctor."

"Don't call me that."

"You are severely inebriated."

"It's kinda the point and it's known as being stoned out of my gourd. I'll be able to sleep now. Nitey night." McCoy drops the joint, stubs it out with a heel, saunters up to the passenger side door, opens it and hops in.

* * *

Listening to Channel 19 on the CB radio is an education in human behavior to say the least. Many colorful metaphors, arguments, human racial slurs, alien slurs, discussions and references to sexual acts of various types (what he can actually understand, that is) and with various alien species.

The activity on the airwaves appears to amuse McCoy, but as the gentleman he appears to be, he does not respond in kind. "Sorry, Spock. We're not supposed to talk that way on the CB, but obviously people do."

"It is apparent that they have never met a Vulcan. We do not possess the type of genitalia of which they describe."

McCoy smiles back. "I wouldn't know." The chatter gets worse as they pass major towns, then tapers off.

They are just past Amarillo, Texas. McCoy has been spending the last few hours debating with three drivers ( _Big Red_ , _Rubber Hammer_ and _Uncle Jessie_ ) about what exactly constitutes a good Southern breakfast when he hears a familiar voice breaking in.

"Well, hell," McCoy says delightedly, "if it ain't Nookie Monster!"

" _Bones? That you? What's your 20?_ "

"I-40, Big A, near'bouts."

"Nookie Monster?" Spock asks McCoy quietly.

McCoy shrugs. "Guess he's a connoisseur."

Spock listens on with wry amusement as Bones and Nookie Monster trade good natured barbs, then suddenly there's an: " _Oh...shit..._ "

"What's that, Nookie? I didn't catch--"

" _Bones, boy, brush your teeth and comb your hair back there._ "

Spock looks over at McCoy. "State Troopers?"

McCoy grins back. "You're learning. Slow down."

* * *

Further on up Interstate 40 in New Mexico, it's getting dark. Spock calls out. "I'm stopping up ahead for the night...Bones."

McCoy smirks but shakes his head at the signage on the roadway. "No...not that one. That one is a little...rough. It'd be better if we stopped in at the next town."

"The next rest stop is not for thirty point three two miles. I must re-charge the fuel cell."

McCoy glances over at the fuel gauge and frowns.

* * *

Spock hooks up the fuel charger to the rig's terminals at the refueling station, glances at where McCoy stands and follows the man's gaze--a roadside bar in the distance. "A moment and I shall change my clothing."

McCoy's uneasily shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "Yeah, okay--can you get my hat, too? I'll wait right here. Put some other shoes on, by the way."

Spock glances down at his 'Chuck Taylor', high-top, black Converse sneakers. This particular style of footwear had been around on Earth for hundreds of years. "Are these not acceptable attire?"

McCoy shakes his head as he stares. "I suppose they're logical?"

"They are comfortable to drive in, therefore logical."

"Oh. You got some boots or something else you could wear instead, kid?"

"I do have an alternate pair of shoes."

He does not understand why McCoy puts a hand to the bridge of his nose. "Go put them on, Spock."

He attires himself in a grey and black striped long sleeve shirt, dark grey trousers, hard soled black shoes. He makes certain his black knitted hat is covering his ears as he comes out of the rig carrying McCoy's cowboy hat and leather jacket. McCoy is still obviously uneasy as he takes both. "You know...we don't have to...go in there, Spock."

"According to my app, there is food at this locale. You are hungry."

"This dump is listed in the app?"

"Affirmative."

McCoy sighs, resigned. "I don't know...I have a bad feeling about this."

"We shall go in," Spock says determinedly. "To this place of repast."

McCoy is still hanging back somewhat and warns: "It's a topless bar, Spock."

"What does that mean, precisely?"

"Surely you know--"

"I do not."

McCoy looks up at the sky, then back at Spock. "Topless. You know… dancers with no tops on. No blouses to cover their assets." Spock looks at McCoy blankly. There is no common frame of reference. McCoy is making some sort of hand sign of which he cannot understand. "They're not wearing anything up there. Just wearing panties..."

"Panties?"

"You ever seen a naked girl before?"

"I have not."

A beat. "Not even your mother?"

Spock stares at McCoy and stops. "Definately not."

"You ever...taken a health class in school or somethin'?" McCoy is sputtering. "Intelligent guy like you-- why you bein' so obtuse? You know, tits? Breasts? Mammary glands? I'm sure Vulcan women have breasts."

"Ah...female breasts. Why would they expose them in a public place?"

"For money. They get paid. I think the waitresses go topless, too."

"Ah."

"You know what--I got a better idea. We should move on, go somewhere else, kid."

"This bar serves alcohol."

"I know that, but--"

"You have been complaining for the past 200 miles that you are out of alcohol, have you not?"

They resume walking and the gravel of the black tarmac crunches under their feet as they slowly approach the bar with the blinking red and yellow neon sign, (a figure of a nude girl reclining in a martini glass): "Fritz, That's It." The parking lot has not been refurbished in what appears to be hundreds of years, nor apparently, has the building. Most likely the bar inside is in a similar state. As they get closer, they can hear the buzz of the archaic neon as it flashes. "You've got me by the short and curlies, kid," McCoy growls.

"Pardon?"

"Just be careful, okay?"

* * *

"Rack 'em up," McCoy says out of the side of his mouth in the smaller bar in the rear, seemingly content now that he has had dinner, was currently listening to some sort of 'bluegrass' music on the ancient jukebox, seen a show in the main bar, laughed heartily at Spock's shocked expression when the pole dancer sat on his lap, and consumed no less than three glasses of Southern Comfort (bought for him by Spock, of course).

"I am unfamiliar with this game," Spock protests. McCoy rolls his eyes.

"Enjoying your Altair Water?" McCoy asks, racks up the balls himself. "Break 'em." He hands Spock the pool cue and explains: "Ya hit this goddamned white cue ball into that triangle of balls." He demonstrates into the air. "Just like that. Gottit?"

Spock shoots the cue ball into the racked balls, swiftly sending three solid balls, one into a corner and two in the side pocket.

"Jesus fucking Christ..." McCoy takes a drink from his glass. "You're solid. Just...hit the solid balls into the pockets. I'm stripe. Don't hit those in. Make sure you call your shots."

"Acknowledged."

They've now acquired an audience, and McCoy glances around them nervously. "Don't say 'acknowledged' in here. Just say 'yeah', okay?"

Spock nods and takes his turn. The cue ball taps the side of the ball and it narrowly misses going in. "Fascinating," he breathes.

McCoy picks up his pool cue. "Corner pocket." He sends first the striped 3 ball, the 6 ball, then the 5 ball, into the corner pocket. Then a solid drops in. "Dammit. Your turn again."

Spock has been studying the pool table. "This appears to merely be an exercise in simple geometry." He misses his shot entirely. Perhaps it is more difficult than previously thought.

"Yeah," McCoy, smirks, picks up his pool cue and aims, sinking a ball in and mutters: "You remember that... when I'm kicking your ass."

* * *

McCoy folds his arms, stands his ground next to Spock.

"My friend has won one hundred credits," Spock insists to the stranger, a man quite a bit larger and taller than both he and McCoy, but he will not be undaunted. "We intend to collect, sir. Since he has won the match, please hand over the entire amount you have bet."

The man glares back at Spock dangerously, then at McCoy before he finally hands it over. He walks away, staring over his shoulder at them.

There's an uneasy silence in the bar-- the jukebox remains untouched. "C'mon, Spock, let's get the hell out of here." McCoy grabs Spock's arm, guides the Vulcan out.

The parking lot is thankfully deserted, but Spock hesitates when they reach the rig. "I must unhook the fuel charger."

"Hurry," McCoy hisses. "Hurry..."

Suddenly they're surrounded. Six against two. McCoy steps protectively in front of Spock, who steps protectively in front of McCoy.

McCoy is giving as good as he gets, landing a few blows here and there. Spock easily blocks many punches, reaches in to nerve pinch two of them, but before the second man drops, he feels a cold metal blade pierce into his side.

He drops to the ground clutching his stomach.

McCoy spins around. "Shit..."

____________________  
on to chapter 3


	3. Dysfunctional Families

He is painfully aware that he is sprawled on hard tarmac.

Numbing cold is creeping up into his body. He cannot see but for a green haze.

Arms are holding him up, a voice seemingly far off in the distance: "...try to stand for me so I can get you...I can't carry you..." The hands are pulling him up now, almost frantically. A voice pleads: "...please stand up...come on..."

On autopilot he manages to get his legs up under him, stand up and be guided, stepping into...

He reaches something soft...a bed perhaps...he does not know...

He loses consciousness before his head hits the pillow...

* * *

He stirs and finds that McCoy is curled up next to him, asleep, a protective arm slung around his shoulders. They are inside the rig, on the bed. McCoy opens his eyes, studies him intently. "Hey."

He tries to speak, instead grunts a response.

A cup appears at his lips. One would assume it contains water, however one cannot be certain with this man, so he hesitates. "Drink it." He drinks, as ordered. (Water) "Lucky for you I had my field surgical kit I stole from the hospital--otherwise you would have bled out before an ambulance reached us." McCoy takes the cup from him, sets it aside. "You're half human," the doctor remarks with surprise. "You didn't tell me that."

Spock nods, shifts a micron, McCoy pulls him closer. "Don't move around too much. The knife penetrated your left ventricle. I managed to repair your internal damage with some fancy micro-surgery but you've lost a significant amount of blood. I've never operated on a Vulcan before, especially a hybrid like you and I was hoping your insides wouldn't be all messed around. I was crossing my fingers you wouldn't require a plasma transfusion, because where in the hell am I gonna get T-neg with some human factors in it, right?" The man snorts bitterly as he often has been wont to do since Spock has made his acquaintance, but says determinedly: "I'm not gonna let you die. Not on my watch."

Spock stares at the black eye on McCoy's face, inches from his own. Notes the cuts and bruises around McCoy's jaw. "Thank you, Doctor."

"Oh right. About that. Listen, you can have me arrested, later."

"Why would I wish to do that?"

"I've lost my medical license from the state of Georgia. I'm not really supposed to be performing surgery on a patient."

"This instance was an emergency," Spock points out.

"Tell that to the Medical Board." McCoy scowls with a faraway look. In the low light, the eyes, the color of Earth's oceans, appear to glow.

Spock can feel the man's cool, bare chest against his arm, senses the faint emotions creeping through in his slightly weakened state: worry, concern, something else he cannot name...

He spots the remnants of McCoy's formerly stark white button up shirt next to the bed. It's now drenched in his blood, along with some splattering of red--Human blood. "Were you stabbed as well?"

McCoy shows him a wrapped up left arm and shoulder. "I look bad, but I'm fine."

"What happened?"

"Well... we managed to survive the roughest, toughest, roadside titty bar this side of New Mexico. Those nasty looking dudes jumped us in the parking lot, they stabbed you and then beat the living shit out of me, robbed us of that money we won playing pool, then they relieved you of your wallet... and me of mine...your iPhone... my i-Phone with my only pictures of my kid on it," McCoy says glumly.

"You have offspring?"

"Uh huh." McCoy coughs. "What kinda question is that?"

"A boy or a girl?"

McCoy coughs once again. "Let's say you get some rest, huh? You're a little out of it. We'll be a little late getting to San Francisco, but--"

Suddenly Spock realizes: "I do not know how I shall continue with my employment. With the loss of my wallet, I no longer have adequate credits for fuel, food, and toll roads." The situation appears bleak. He was provided with half of his pay when he left his agency, the remaining half due upon arrival.

"You have fuel at least, you hooked up before we went into the bar."

"I had yet to pay for the fuel before we were attacked, it is timed out by now. It will be at nil."

"Don't you have provisions? Emergency credits?"

"Negative."

"Some truck driver you make. Some Starfleet officer you'd make. Didn't your mama ever tell you to always keep provisions in case of an emergency? Weren't you ever a boyscout? Now what the hell are you gonna do?!"

"I do not know. Perhaps I shall contact my employer and explain the situation via CB, or borrow an iPhone--"

"You know damned well soon as your company finds out they gotta advance you credits--you're toast, don'cya? They don't give two shits about their drivers! You a Teamster?"

"I am not."

"Then you definately outta luck."

"I shall not make it to San Francisco."

McCoy reaches up and behind him, pulls out a credit card, holds it up to Spock's face. "Remember you gave this to me in Texas? I'd left it behind in the truck."

"Ah." Spock gulps. (Control) "Of course."

"You were panicking," McCoy teases. "You were about to cry."

"I was not."

"Well, at any rate, it's a good thing I'm here," the man says quietly. "You'd be dead by now."

Spock gives the man a small smile in gratitude, but McCoy's attention is diverted, he is busy examining the area of Spock's heart, (covered with a makeshift dressing created from McCoy's shirt) with his small scanner and muttering: "Your heart's at a wierd angle. What a goddamned crazy place to even put a heart, where your liver should be."

"It serves me adequately."

McCoy sighs. "S'pose it does. Everything's holding together, you're doing fine. You do need some rest, though. I heard that Vulcans can go into a healing trance. What about a hybrid?"

"I can do so, however, I would rather not at this juncture."

"Well, at least rest. You need it."

"As do you."

McCoy stops the scanner with a snap of the wrist and sets it down. "Yeah." The doctor does not, will not, let go of him. Spock can feel a flurry of emotions on the surface as the man moves from one thought to another, his mind relaxes somewhat and he can feel McCoy's breathing slowing down. "Nice ears."

Spock reaches up to touch one--his knitted hat is missing. Either McCoy has removed it, or he has lost it in the scuffle. This would be the first time that his traveling companion has seen them.

"Yeah," is the answer to the unvoiced query. "I don't know where your hat went. Sorry about that." He must of betrayed a visible expression of dismay because McCoy adds: "Birthday gift from Grandma?"

He shifts again, there is some discomfiture in movement. McCoy holds him closer, presumably to stop him. "My mother knitted it for me."

"You seem rather attached to it."

"The hat serves a dual purpose: Sentimental value, and necessity."

"People have been staring at those big elfin ears, I gather."

"Affirmative. It is also for warmth."

"Of course, but I didn't think Vulcan's got sentimental. That wouldn't be very logical."

Spock grimaces slightly at the man's sarcastic use of the word 'logical'. "The hat was a parting gift, before I left Vulcan."

"You mother's the...uh... Human, I gather?"

"Yes."

"Are you close to your parents?"

"My mother."

"Not close to daddy, huh? You know what? I have a feeling he didn't want you to leave home. Wanted you to go into the family business...am I right?"

Spock hesitates for a moment, then nods. "Essentially correct. It was decided when I was a child, that it was my path to enter the Vulcan Science Academy at maturity. As my father did before me."

"You make your own path in life. Nobody else."

"So I had attempted to communicate with him. I did not succeed, on the last occasion we spoke, more than six months ago. We do not--as you would say on Earth--get along."

"Well, what do you know," McCoy clears his throat and says, faintly: "Vulcans have dysfunctional families, too."

Spock keeps silent on the matter for a few moments, then ultimately decides to ask: "Are you estranged from your father as well? Is that why you are traveling to California?"

McCoy says nothing in response.

Spock wonders and enquires further: "What occupation does your father hold?"

"He...uh...he was a physician." There is a slight movement as McCoy coughs again and reaches for something.

"So you yourself did indeed follow in your father's footsteps?"

"Goodnight, Spock."

"Doct--"

There is pressure against his arm, a hiss and everything goes black.

 

* * *

He awakens on the bed. Alone.

The rig is moving.

He pulls himself up to a sitting position, manages to lean forward to see...

McCoy is driving.

(...)

(!)

McCoy hears him, glances over for a split second. "Hi there, Hobgoblin." Spock gets up, comes over to sit himself very carefully in the passenger seat and looks out through the dashboard. They are traveling rather fast. "I'm making up time."

"You are not licensed to operate this motor vehicle."

"Wrong. I most certainly am." McCoy expertly shifts gears, then resumes: "I am in possession of a current commercial drivers license."

"Really?" Spock scoffs.

"Okay-- it's suspended at the moment--but the important thing is, I do know how to drive this thing. Better than you can. I was a Teamster and driving is what I did before I entered med school some years back. Perhaps I should get back into it--being as, uh..." As McCoy trails off, Spock glances over and notes that McCoy is dressed in one of his own black and white striped, long sleeve shirts. "I hope you don't mind," McCoy says as he notices what Spock is staring at. "I'm borrowing your clothes."

"I do not mind."

McCoy shifts another gear, glances into the rearview mirror. "Are striped shirts the only thing you have in your closet?"

Spock nods, still slightly stunned at the sight of McCoy driving. "I tend to favor them, yes."

"I'm lucky this ridiculous shirt fit me. You're a thin bastard." With a grunt, Spock manages to twist around to get a look out through the passenger side window, the movement still causing some discomfort. "Careful," McCoy warns. "It's going to take a bit of time before you can move around comfortably, let alone drive again."

"I am a Vulcan, I am able to control the pain."

"I see that you're a Vulcan, with them big pointy ears. Hobgoblin."

* * *

" _Bones, you gotcha ears on, come back_?"

"10-4, Nookie Monster, what's your 20?"

" _Two miles at your back door...Got you on my nav system. How's it goin up there_?"

"Might-nigh on 150 kph, Nookie. I'm in the hammer lane and the wind's at my back--"

" _I can't believe they let you out on the roads again, Bones! I think you've stolen somebody's rig--_ "

"Watch yo' mouth, Nookie Monster, you Goddamned Yankee bastard--"

" _Midwesterner, Bones, get it right--_ "

"Whatever, you ain't--"

" _Hey, Listen up, Bones... you gotta..._ " (static)

"Do what now, Nookie?"

(static)

"Nookie? 4-10?"

(static)

"Nookie, do you copy?"

" _...full blown bear's done a flip-flop... hammered down about two miles behind you._ "

Spock comes out of the sleeper, sits down in the passenger seat and gingerly fastens his seatbelt. "Reduce speed, Bones. We have been warned of another state trooper approaching us at a great velocity from behind."

McCoy grins.

______________________  
On to chapter 4


	4. There is Always a Denny's, Dr. McCoy

_Seligman, Arizona_

Spock finds himself profoundly interested in how quickly McCoy guides them to this particular truck stop off the main route without an app or GPS to assist them (as their iPhones had unfortunately been stolen in the attack in New Mexico).

When queried about this, McCoy declares: "Fuck the apps, Spock. We don't need 'em and the GPS always gets me lost anyway. Fuck that too." McCoy steers into the parking lot, parks it expertly, with one side of the rig nearest the wall. "That way, one side of the truck is protected from damage," he counsels before adding: "Fuck, I'm dying for a piss.".

"Must you use the same form of vulgarity over and over--"

"Yeah, I must."

"It is rather unbecoming. Emotional."

"It's the way I talk, you greenblooded hobgoblin," McCoy snaps. "Get used to it."

Before they disembark, McCoy points at him. "Hang on a 'sec. Come here." Spock comes over to sit on the bed, McCoy plops down alongside and lifts up the shirt to examine the area of the wound. They'd made a quick stop about 30 miles ago to purchase a can of spray bandage at the local RiteAid pharmacy. Obviously the doctor wishes to see how the injury is faring so far. Spock feels the cold fingers (doctor's fingers) brush his skin and he recoils slightly. McCoy notices. "Are you in pain?"

"I am, admittedly, slightly stiff."

There is an odd, devious smirk from McCoy. "Are ya?" Out comes the scanner. McCoy busies himself with the readings. The injury appears to be healing well and the shirt is gently pulled down. McCoy stands up and nods his readiness.

They exit the rig and together they match strides up to the truckstop shop/cafe/restroom entrance.

"This shall be our last opportunity to shower before we reach San Francisco," Spock indicates as they approach.

"Are you trying to tell me I stink, Spock?" McCoy shoots back at him with a raised eyebrow. "Don't blame me for being all sweaty, I've been drivin'. Ain't gonna smell like roses, that's for fuckin' sure."

"That much is certain," Spock says quietly.

They enter the public restrooms/showers, through the outer door. McCoy stops at the urinal and with a deep sigh quickly relieves himself. Spock stands behind him, waiting. McCoy finishes quickly, and fastens up the trousers and snaps: "You know, the polite thing to do is not to stare at someone peeing. Might be taken the wrong way."

"My apologies."

McCoy reaches over to wash his hands then dry them in the wall dryer. "Don't you have to urinate?"

"I shall in San Francisco." McCoy shakes his head and rolls his eyes.

"These goddamned skinny jeans of yours," McCoy continues to grumble. "Tight as hell. Feels like they're painted on." He pauses to turn around and glance at his reflection in the wall mirror. "I have...no ass in these."

Spock directs his attention towards the area the doctor is concerned about. The area in question, the derriere, seems to be, while small, it is shapely. Not at all disappointing. Perhaps the doctor should do more bending over, as he his doing now, the trousers seem to suit that activity. He does not tell the doctor this, simply explains: "They are known as 'skinny jeans' for a reason."

"Whatever." McCoy coughs.

McCoy finally gives up and they move on to the shower area. Entry to each shower stall is via a credit card. Spock pulls out his card and checks the price listed on the wall.

"Jesus," McCoy says. "Price's gone up."

"Pardon?"

McCoy motions at the wall. "The showers are expensive in this one, but it's a lot cleaner here, and that's important. You'd think in this day and age we'd have cleaner truckstop bathrooms. It's like a timewarp in some of 'em. Fungus and bacteria and viruses and various protozoa, ad infinitum. You know what, I could elaborate in detail the diseases that one could contract in these here truckstop bathrooms. The etiology," McCoy says dreamily, almost flirtatiously. "Along with the odds of contacting them. The treatment."

"It would prove an interesting discussion. Perhaps over dinner."

McCoy's face brightens. "I'd like that."

"Indeed."

"You can't pick up any STDs from a toilet seat, though. In case you were wondering. Unless you were uh--you know."

"Unless I was what?"

"Having unprotected sex. With a...stranger." McCoy coughs.

"Ah."

"You go first. I'll wait here."

"We should share," Spock says without hesitation.

"Share what?"

Spock looks at him and blinks. "The shower."

"You want me to take a shower with you?" Spock nods back. McCoy says out of the side of his mouth: "You may be entering Starfleet where you'll be doing a lot of sharing of showers and cramped quarters and shuttlecrafts and diseases..."

"I have already seen you unclothed."

McCoy pouts. "This is different."

"Unfortunately, there is an outstanding need to conserve funds on this single credit card. Take a shower with me."

"Why do you say it like that?"

"Like what?"

"Just what is it you want, anyway?"

Spock looks down at the credit card in his hand, then back at McCoy. Surely it must be obvious what he wishes. "A shower."

"And, that's it?"

"Affirmative."

"Knock it off with the 'Affirmative', Spock. We're not in the goddamned service." The childish pout has been upgraded into a scowl as McCoy hisses: "Just...open the fucking door."

Spock shrugs. McCoy had previously made a comment regarding two strangers mating in a public restroom yet is now skittish. Fascinating. He slides the credit card into the slot. The door opens and they enter. They pick up their fresh towels and shampoo from the recycler/depositor, with McCoy pulling his out with much more force than is required. "Is there some sort of problem, Dr. McCoy?"

McCoy still seems to be angry with him. "Let's get on with it."

"Certainly."

Without a further word they disrobe down to the nude. McCoy is looking everywhere but directly at him and possessing a determinately grim expression on his face and hitting the 'on' sensor with also entirely too much force than is remotely necessary (illogical).

Spock jerks back at the sensation of the liquid droplets hitting his face. "Water?"

"Yeah. Water. Feels good." There is a soft groan from him as he leans his head back in the spray. "Don't tell me you've never had a water shower before."

"I have not."

"First time for everything," is tossed back to him with the head under the spray and it is at this point, when McCoy turns around in the water, that Spock suddenly notes the whole extent of McCoy's injuries. Along with the covered wound on the upper arm, additionally there is serious bruising around the collarbone, shoulders, hips, legs, along with the previously visible facial contusions.

McCoy, aware of him studying, quickly turns around again with an annoyed grimace.

"You are severely injured," Spock states.

"I told you before, it looks worse than it is. I'm fine. Just a cracked rib bothering me a little bit. Quit staring at me, dammit."

"You have been driving with a cracked rib?!" That injury would be painful, even for a Vulcan.

"I'm fine," the doctor insists. "Hardly notice any pain." He soaps his body up. "Quit staring. We've only got fifteen minutes in here."

Spock finds himself reaching out and lightly traces a boot shaped dark bruise on McCoy's back.

McCoy stiffens at the touch. "Don't..."

* * *

"God, I'm so sorry," McCoy says, apparently amused, though Spock does not see where the joke should be-- not when he is crouched over a toilet, vomiting up his dinner. Perhaps he should have realized that the repeated shots of Bourbon the doctor insisted he partake of all evening would be detrimental to his system. He cannot believe he'd trusted the human like this--surely a physician should not so endanger another's health in this way. "I didn't think you'd get so sick from it," McCoy attempts an explanation for the sixth time.

Spock gasps out, "I am affected... by grain alcohol differently than you..."

McCoy is crouched behind him, rubbing circles into his back. The arms slide around him, holding him close. His breath hitches ever so slightly. Does the doctor not realize that this sensation is new for him, the intimacy of this, to be touched in this way? It is most unusual for a Vulcan. He would not even be embraced in this way by a bondmate--though perhaps during mating he would...(why is he thinking of mating at a time like this?) Not even his human mother would connect with him, like this. He finds McCoy's encircled arms comforting. The coolness of the man's body feels pleasurable. He is tempted to recline his head onto the shoulder, but he does not. He should not.

He is confused by this.

McCoy would not allow physical contact in the shower, yet the doctor does this to him...for him, now.

Spock can feel them again--the emotions creeping into his mind as it has before-- when they have been in much more casual physical contact. There is worry, guilt, and something else he cannot name...

"I didn't know you'd be allergic, I should have checked. I'm sorry," McCoy says. Spock vomits again and McCoy's hands slide over to once again rub his shoulders. "I don't have a magic potion to help you. We're just gonna have to ride this one out. I guess, this'll be a lesson for me, never try to get a half Vulcan to do shots with me ever again."

"I should not... have agreed... so readily," Spock manages, before he is puking, once again.

* * *

McCoy is tossing and turning on the bed. He sits up.

Spock awakens also with the movement. "Nightmare?"

"Can't sleep. I'm goin' outside for a little bit. Don't you worry about me."

"Leonard," Spock calls out to him, before he stops himself. He had not been invited to use the given name--unheard of on Vulcan, why does he use it now?

McCoy snorts. "Leonard. The only person who called me that was Jocelyn, and...uh...my dad."

"Forgive me. I did not wish to offend."

"You didn't offend me," McCoy protests quietly. "'Leonard' is better than 'Doctor' I s'pose." The man pulls a pair of Spock's pants on--a looser pair, meant for sleeping, (there is a grunt in surprise at them), pulls on another of Spock's fresh striped shirts. "I'll be back in a little while. Go to sleep."

Spock knows why the doctor will go out, but it is illogical to embroil himself in this man's emotional pain, however evident it is.

Yet he finds that he waits patiently (impatiently) for the man to return, over an hour later. (one point six two hours later.)

(He was not keeping time. Not at all.)

"You're still up," McCoy replies in a disgusted voice, coughing. "Why'd you wait up for me?" McCoy reeks of the familiar odor.

"Are you coming back to bed?" Spock asks.

McCoy takes a small bag out his pocket, picks up his medicine case, opens it, stuffs the object inside. "Not when you put it like that," he is growling. Yet... he removes the shirt and pants (leaving the underwear on) and climbs into bed, next to Spock. Not touching. "I'll try not to snuggle with you this time," McCoy jokes as he gets himself comfortable, pulling the covers up to his waist.

"If you must cling to me in your sleep, I do not mind."

"I cling to you in my sleep? That's what I do? Well, it'd be better if I didn't. How's that?"

"How is what?"

McCoy sighs in the dark. "Go to sleep."

An hour later, McCoy sits up, sweating and breathing heavily.

Spock opens his eyes. "Leonard--"

"Don't call me that."

"You had previously indicated--"

"I know what I said before. Don't call me that."

"As you wish."

There is a pause of a few beats before McCoy abruptly gets up, moves to the front of the cab, opens up his medical case and pours out the contents in the seat. He paws though them, desperately, obviously searching for an object. "Dammit!"

"McCoy." There is no answer. "Bones."

"Nothing's working... not the booze...not the weed... I'm out of sedatives...dammit...nothing helps..." He pushes the bag's contents onto the floor of the cab then falls down, deflated, into the passenger seat.

"Is it your rib? Are you in pain?"

"No...leave me alone, Spock. Go to sleep."

"McCoy." Spock sits up in bed to see the doctor with his face buried in his hands. He is making a slight snuffling sound. Spock rises from the bed, comes over to stand behind him, lays a hand on the smooth, cool, slim bare shoulder. He reaches down and pulls McCoy up by the underarms, the soft hair there tickling his fingers, walks him over to the bed. The doctor does not resist and allows Spock to guide him.

Spock lays him down, gets into bed next to him and pulls him close into an embrace. "This isn't very logical," McCoy points out but does not pull away.

"No, it is not." (Most definitely, not.)

McCoy is turned with his pelvis slightly against Spock's hip, face nestled against his shoulder. His hand rests flat on Spock's bare chest. The breaths are even. The Human appears content to stay in Spock's arms and for a long while it is quiet.

"The nights are always the hardest," McCoy eventually murmurs before he dozes off.

 

* * *

 _Southern California_

They move from Interstate 40, to Interstate 15, to Interstate 5 all the while McCoy is singing along tunelessly to a country western satellite radio station brodcast.

"Must we--"

"Yes, we must, Hobgoblin. Only 5 more hours to go! Who hooo! I wonder if there's a Denny's around here. I'm starving."

"There always is a Denny's, Dr. McCoy."

"Sho-nough!"

Spock wonders if he can stand five more hours of McCoy's singing.

* * *

 _San Francisco. 19:00._

Spock pulls the rig up to the receiver parking bay 3. He engages the air brakes, parks and shuts off the engine. It is windy and cold with a drizzle outside. The warehouse, located in the North Beach district is dark and quiet, the only sounds emanating from the seagulls and the nearby San Francisco Bay.

"Are you certain that this is the terminus?" McCoy wonders.

Spock picks up his log PADD and studies it. "This location aligns with the co-ordinates I was given."

"It appears they've gone home for the night."

"If that is indeed the case, I must wait here until morning."

"Alright then." McCoy coughs. "I'll be on my way and out of your hair."

"You may stay..." Spock finds himself saying till he cuts himself off. It is illogical to offer this man additional refuge. In reality McCoy is simply a stranger who has merely needed a ride and has now reached his intended destination, hence the logical end of their association. However there is a pang of loneliness that Spock now feels. He does not wish for the doctor to leave. The thought appears to be mirrored in the human's blue eyes. Odd.

For a moment, it appears that McCoy will accept. "Nah, that's okay. But, promise me, after you're done here, you'll get a thorough check up at a hospital. I mean… I did a damned thorough patch job on you but I'm just want to make sure you're really healed up properly."

Spock nods. "I shall do so."

"Promise me, that you will," McCoy says, more sternly.

"Do you doubt my word?"

"Something about you tells me you're stubborn. Now, I can't order you to. It's not like we're in the service or anything is it?"

McCoy coughs once again and Spock suddenly notes that the man has performed this particular action a great deal since the attack. "You as well, need medical attention."

"Yeah, sure." McCoy sweeps him with a long, lingering gaze. "Well, Hobgoblin, I guess this is it... and uh…hey!" When McCoy smiles so purely, without bitterness, it is kind to his features.

Spock gazes back at him, drinks in the smile. "Hey?"

"I found you your CB handle: 'The Hobgoblin'." McCoy bestows the new moniker with a flourish and is downright pleased with himself.

"Bones and The Hobgoblin," Spock confirms.

"Exactly!" McCoy's laughter is now a little forced as he reaches over to grab his dufflebag. "It certainly was... interesting riding with you all this way. Thanks for...uh...everything. And uh...I'm gonna have to keep your shirt and jeans. That okay?"

"Of course."

"See ya around. Good luck in Starfleet."

"Doctor."

"Yeah?"

"Where shall you go?"

There is hesitation before the flippant response: "Oh...I don't know. Somewhere. Don't you worry about me. I'll be fine."

"Do you have relations or friends in San Francisco?"

"Uh...No. I just wanted to get as far away from Georgia as I could, that's all."

"Why?"

"You ask too many questions, you know that, Vulcan?" McCoy's mouth presses into a hard line. "Starting to piss me off."

"Answer the question, Doctor."

McCoy's hand snakes out to open the door. "None of your business."

Spock stops him. "Join Starfleet," he offers once again, undaunted.

McCoy looks away. "They wouldn't want somebody like me."

"They could use a man such as yourself on board a starship."

McCoy turns back to face him. "What, a murderer?"

"You mean to say you've recently lost a patient," Spock corrects him.

"Oh no, no, no, Spock. I've lost plenty of patients in my career. No, this time I did more than that." McCoy is smiling once again, a cold humorless smile--and as he spits this out, the blue eyes have turned grey, dead. "I deliberately ended a man's life. Deliberately. You got that? It was my own father." McCoy quickly grabs his duffle bag and black kit and opens up the driver's side door. "Don't follow me."

Spock holds out the credit card. "Take this."

"I don't need it."

"Take it."

McCoy hesitates for a moment, then finally plucks the card out of Spock's hand. Says harshly: "I gotta go."

But before McCoy leaves, he suddenly reaches out, there is a brief touch of their fingers. There is a complete disparity, incongruity between the doctor's true inner feelings and the harshness of his words. An amazing sense of serenity and wellbeing radiates from this man. Fascinating.

McCoy pulls his hand away and in an instant, the connection is gone.

The metal door slams and it is quiet, it is as if McCoy had never existed.

Spock glances down at the credit card, dropped and left behind on the drivers seat.   
_____________________  
On to Chapter 5


	5. Chapter 5

The truck's cargo is to be unloaded first thing in the morning by a contingent of warehouse staff. They walk slowly out of the dispatch office to begin the day's work, most of them munching on confectionary and drinking coffee. One of the workers points directly at Spock, a bored expression on the woman's round, very red face. Broken capillaries are visible on the skin, her breath steaming from her lips in the brisk morning air.

Spock leaves the rig behind and heads to the payroll office to turn in his logPADD and collect his earnings.

The payroll clerk says nothing in any sort of greeting, nor does he offer one to her. She takes the credit card from his outstretched fingers. (staring at his ears) After she carefully scrutinizes his logPADD with furrowed brow, she shrugs. One swipe by the reader and he is now in possession of the full amount due him. As the woman hands the card back to him, (still engrossed in his ears.) he suppresses the urge to reach up and touch an ear tip. It could be said that he misses his knitted hat. However, is not logical to pine for one's missing hat from one's mother who had so dedicatedly knitted such a vital item for him, so he will not do so now. One can purchase another identical hat in one of many shops in the city. However it would not be mother's hat.

The woman gazes at him curiously. He realizes he has been standing there in somewhat of a daze. The cold air must be affecting him. He nods and clears out.

Time now to pack up his scant belongings, return the rig to the company and make his way to Starfleet Academy, the reason he came all this way to San Francisco. Nothing must get in the way of this goal.

Inside the rig, in the sleeper, he methodically pulls each shirt, undershirt, and jeans off its hanger and folds them all neatly, placing them all into a dufflebag. He takes his underwear, socks, shoes and other miscellany, also places them into the bag. He gathers up the bedding, folds it precisely. Places the two pillows on top.

In his haste to vacate, he nearly misses the object. It is jammed in between the bed and the bulkhead. It is the remnants of McCoy's white button up shirt. The shirt with their blood on it.

It should be disposed of. There should be no reason to keep this. No reason at all. One should not keep items simply as a memento. He pitches it into the recycler.

It misses and instead hits the bulkhead above it, sliding down and landing on the floor. Normally he should have either WALKED up to said recycler to dispose of it, rather than pitching it. Since he did indeed do so, with his aim, the object should have entered the chute with deadly accuracy. He must be fatigued.

He finally walks over to retrieve the remnant, pauses and stares. McCoy's 'cowboy' hat is stuffed in a cubbyhole. He pulls it out. Odd that it has been left behind. There is something inside the hat.

It is his knitted hat from his mother. Fascinating. He never thought it would see it again. How did McCoy retrieve...?

Attached to the hat is a handwritten note on real paper: "Look what I found, Hobgoblin. Love, Bones."

(love, bones? 'Love' is an informal complementary close Humans often use in a line of text. It means nothing. ah.) This knowledge does not stop him from breaking into a smile for two point three one seconds. He is fortunate that his father is not here to witness this display. He blushes at the thought. However, he now has his hat mother knitted for him. He puts it on with a firm tug over the ears and gives out a satisfied sigh. Shameful.

It is profoundly curious as to why McCoy left his own hat behind. The doctor had seemed rather attached to it. He holds it to his nose, closes his eyes. The hat still bears McCoy's now familiar scent...

* * *

Beautiful day. The most beautiful morning he's seen in awhile. Sparkling blue water. Not a cloud in the sky. Bridge is crowded. Joggers. Tourists. Jostling with him on that little sidewalk for some walking room. Nobody pays him any real attention.

Now he's in the middle of the span. Others there too. Looking over the side. The same thing he's doing. Perfect. He stares at the water. 250 feet down. Body will achieve approximately a top speed of over 75 mph. Akin to a truck slamming into a brick wall. Multiple blunt force. Shattered everything. Winding up on somebody's slab. Sure won't be pretty.

Doesn't have to be so violent and painful. Like this. Could just take the hypo nice and gently in some dingy, rotting motel room. The end is the end. Neuro-paralizer. Brought it all this way. Special. It's just like he gave to dear old Dad in that hospital.

Nah. The guy who murdered his dad can hit the water.

If he's quick he can do this. Nobody'll see or know the difference. No kids around right now to witness this. Black medical bag placed deliberately on the ground. Like he's read you're supposed to do. Probably just cliché.

Nevertheless he does it.

Hypo and drugs hurtled over the side. No sense in anybody using 'em to escape their problems. Scanner too.

Duffelbag's already gone. He'd given it and the contents away to some homeless person. ID gone, along with the wallet and iPhone way back in New Mexico. Doesn't matter. He's identified himself in the handwritten note in the plastic case pinned to his (Spock's rediculously skinny) jeans. These things hide nothing.

Wedding ring. Holds it the palm of his hand. (dammit.) Holds a little yellow rubber duck he brought all this way. It was his baby's. He took it when he left, it reminded him of bathtime. Been riding in his dufflebag all this time. He squeaks it. Smiles. She liked the squeaks. She'd giggle and make him squeak it again. And again. And again. (sorry little Jo. but you'll never see your daddy again anyways. i'll never see you again. Joss took you away from me.) He shoves the duck into his pocket.

He pulls off Spock's stripey, long sleeve shirt. Cold with no shirt on. Folds it up. Precisely. Just like Spock would. (i wonder if that Vulcan went and got a checkup after all, or is he ignoring his own health? Probably not. Stubborn, stupid, hobgoblin. Playin' games with life.) Boots off, and socks and jacket too. Places ring next to them. All lined up. On the sidewalk. All in a row. Like ducks. (my little ducks are all in a row. just like the rhyme i used to read to Jo.)

(Spock would find a rhyme at death illogical.)

He sneaks over the side of the railing. Nobody sees him. Railing's only four foot high. All those jumpers, those statistics for hundreds of years and still no idiot has wanted to erect a barrier to stop 'em. Because way back in the early 20th century, the chief engineer of the bridge: Joseph Strauss was only five feet tall and wanted to see over the railing. Idiot. Irresponsible fucking idiot.

Pulls the silver flask out of his pocket--belonged to his dad-- takes one last, long swig. Sure glad this ain't Altair Water. Lets go of the flask, it drops, quickly disappearing from view.

(So this is the end. i sure hope that crazy Vulcan is doin' okay. i'm sure he is. probably already forgotten about me. Already gone on to Starfleet. Being an officer an' all.)

(spock...)

* * *

McCoy.

Spock shoves the hat and the shirt remnant into his dufflebag. (illogical) He makes his way out of the rig, hands over the keycard to the dispatch office and heads out of the complex on foot.

His entry into the Academy is in seven point two hours. Due to security reasons, he cannot walk onto the campus until then. Civilian access is allowed only by appointment.

He stows his duffelbag into a locker in a transport terminal near Lincoln Park. Seven point three two hours to wait for a new beginning.

* * *

Five point three seven hours till check in appointment at the Academy. In this wait for entry, he finds himself with a moderate amount of time on his hands. He could study in a coffeehouse, there are plenty of those on every corner, however his mind has been oddly unsettled for any kind of constructive activity of that sort. There is a lecture on the writings of Carl Gustav Jung and the concept of Synchronicity that he might attend at the local library. He does not. He instead makes many fleeting attempts to meditate in Lincoln Park, the buildings of the Academy within viewing distance. Along the bay, the noise of the tourists and children playing nearby is distracting no matter which patch of grass he sits at.

(certainly Dr. McCoy is alright.)

(but. what if he is not?)

(it is of no concern of yours. McCoy is gone.) He stands and goes in search of some quiet space.

* * *

It is during a downward facing dog in the k'ai'ra Yoga Studio--the location chosen because it is an ample opportunity to meditate, albeit lightly, also the name of said studio is very similar to a Vulcan word: 'ki'ai'ra', which loosely translates to: 'meaningful one'--when it occurs to him that perhaps he might spend his last few free hours searching for McCoy.

(why would one do that? concentrate on breathing, that shall help the mind rid itself of futile thoughts of errant doctors.)

* * *

 _Mercy hospital, urgent care clinic. Mission District._

He sits, patiently, expressionless, in the room designating for waiting. It is chock full of humans--people, many holding crying babies. He is here, partially out of his promise to the human to get a check-up and partially out of an illogical... hope, that...McCoy is either employed here (not employed, the human lost his license, remember?) or perhaps he is listed as a patient...

Perhaps he is becoming obsessed.

Two standard hours later, he is seen by an exhausted, slightly disheveled young intern with blue eyes..like McCoy's. "Can you remove your hat, please?" He obediently does and the doctor stares hard at his ears. "So, what did you say happened to you?"

"I was stabbed in the left ventricle," he repeats for the fifth time since entering this clinic. "By an attacker--"

"The left ventricle?" The intern stares at him skeptically. "You wouldn't be standing here talking to me if--"

Spock clears his throat in a very human fashion and explains calmly (and is aware that he quite rudely interrupted the young physician): "The doctor who performed emergency field surgery on me suggested that I come to the hospital for a follow up examination."

The hand held medical sensor is out and whirling, there's a squint and a scowl over the readout. The mediPADD is tapped, and the intercomn button pushed: "Dr. Taylor, Dr. Seok, Dr. Tam your presence is requested in exam room 12."

A group of doctors appear (one of them a Vulcan). The three confer, oblivious to him. Checking, murmuring, and scanning his body. Murmuring and scanning again. He proffers the healer a question in the native tongue. The query is ignored. It is as if he is not here.

"Who operated on you?" is finally demanded.

He hesitates: "A...Dr. Leonard McCoy."

"Who?"

"Is there a problem, Doctor?"

The intern answers: "This field procedure performed on you. This Dr. Leonard McCoy is a genius. An absolute genius at microsurgery. He saved your life."

He says nothing.

The doctors finally nod at him, leaving him alone with the intern who picks up his PADD. "We'll want to run some tests on you."

He does not have much time. "Are you familiar with Dr. McCoy?"

"I don't know him, but I'd sure like to meet him."

* * *

Hat now firmly enconsed on his head, he heads to an Apple Store, replaces his stolen iPhone, then spends one hour placing messages on Twitter. Around for hundreds of years, one would normally find the concept of Twitter to be a complete waste of time, and therefore illogical, however Twitter can prove an extremely useful tool...for locating someone.

He tweets: "looking. for a man. imperative. to find him."

He gets hundreds of replies along the lines of: "@Spock: You and me both, dude."

He tweets again: "dr. leonard. mc coy. stat."

He gets more replies: "@Spock: Haiku? Your profile pic is hot. Nice hat. DTF?"

He sighs and gives up. Perhaps Twitter is indeed a waste of time.

* * *

Three point two hours till his entry appointment. He finds himself wandering the city, traversing its streets, parks, areas of interest. If he could admit to feeling anything...he would feel...lost...he searches and searches and cannot find what he is looking for.

Timidly he enters a few drinking establishments in Pacific Heights, then moving on to Sausalito, where he orders a Altair Water, leaves immediately after finishing his drink. McCoy is not here.

Why is he doing this? This obsession with futility, in locating someone in such a bustling area, no way to track them, to contact them, he is simply wandering. This current compulsion of his is of the utmost insult to his own father, his own upbringing, Surakian logic, all that he knows. Why is is so consumed by concern over this man?

* * *

One point two hours till entry appointment. From the Sausalito side, he heads across the Golden Gate Bridge to San Francisco. Once there he will pick up his duffel bag and begin his preparations to enter the Academy. He stops in the middle of the span and looks out into the San Francisco Bay. The sky is blue, as blue as he has ever seen it on Earth. The ocean, pure. An undeniably beautiful day.

He turns to go. Again he pauses. There is a man, bare-chested, clinging on the other side of the railing. He glances around him, almost frantically. Is this man not visible on any police monitors? Why is no one here to aprehend him? There are no bots in the vicinity and though it is crowded on this pedestrian walkway, no one pays him much attention. Without a thought or heed to his own personal safety, he climbs carefully over the railing, lowers himself down, he will be ready to catch the man, counsel him against such an act.

It is not until he is on the narrow metal protrusion, clinging onto the railing, standing next to the man, scant centimeters between his own life and death does he realize the shirtless man is McCoy.

* * *

He holds on desperately. One hand clutches the railing, the other hand on McCoy, tight enough to bruise. He is angry, seething, does not show it. (Control). McCoy must of traveled this distance from home, with the sole intent to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge. McCoy will not hear any rational arguments, he gets an arm free and swings blindly at Spock. On this narrow ledge, the action is foolhardy. McCoy is not a man at the moment concerned with his own safety, merely Spock's. "Get out of here!" the doctor yells. "You'll die!"

"That appears to be your own objective."

"Let me go!" Spock does not let go of him. McCoy's eyes are glazed, crazed. If McCoy jumps or even falls, he will have to take Spock with him. "You son of a bitch!" The doctor swings again, makes contact this time, the fist lands squarely on his left cheek. It is hard enough to hurt. The man is stronger then previously thought. He lets the blow seep though him, does not flinch, will not flinch even as McCoy screams at him: "Let me go!"

He holds on tightly to the doctor.

"How'd you even find me?!" McCoy is asking him. He does not know. Was he drawn here, the same as McCoy, to this place?

"I cannot allow you to continue this action."

"Don't you understand?!!" McCoy is still shouting at him, now shrieking at him. The face is scant centimeters from his own, he feels the other's alcohol laden breath on his. "Don't you understand? I'd found it. I'd found a goddamned cure! Too late! If it wasn't for me-- he would have lived!!"

"You committed patricide, but your father was dying regardless. My theory is--"

"Your theory? You're gonna tell me your fucking theory while clinging to the edge of the Golden Gate Bridge? Are you out of your Vulcan mind?!"

"Your father was in excruciating pain, was he not? You simply acted as you should, you helped to preserve his dignity."

"I preserved his dignity," McCoy repeats, the eyes are dazed. "I couldn't bear to see him like that...in so much goddamned pain, not even the drugs could touch it...he begged me to end his life."

"Exactly." One false move on this tiny metal ledge, and they will surely fall. "Come back up with me."

"No!" McCoy shrieks once again into his face, laughing hysterically. "Nobody cares about me. Not my ex-wife, not the medical board...You...you don't care...you goddamn, inhuman, unfeeling, Vulcan son of a--"

"I care." Spock shakes McCoy, runs his hand along the man's arm. "I care." McCoy glances down at the water, then back at Spock. It is only a moment, but the moment feels like an eternity as the eyes the color of the ocean beneath them stare back at him, they are focused, zeroed in, wide, stunned. The lips part though there are no more words. The doctor's hands are gripped onto the red barrier as he looks down at the water again.

Spock climbs up, extends a hand down to McCoy. "Come."

McCoy glances down at the water, then back at Spock, then down at the water. "I can't move." His eyes are wide, his movements frozen.

"Yes you can, look at me-- do not look down as you ascend."

"I can't."

"Look at me." Spock is finally able to pull McCoy up and over the fence. They stand facing each other on the walkway in relative safety. McCoy is still clinging to him, locked into his gaze. A raindrop hits Spock's face, then more and still more. His attention is directed upward at the grey, suddenly weeping sky and then sharply down again, as he feels something. An emotion from the other...In a fluttering movement, there is pressure, wetness against his lips, a crushing, passionate this-- a kiss. His eyes close. This is a real human kiss! The contact of McCoy's mouth and his... is enough to make his breath catch. His mouth opens slightly.

McCoy pulls back, horrified. "Oh...God!" He wriggles away from Spock, quite easily now that his torso is becoming slick with rain-- is it to make an attempt to jump? In a quick reactive move, Spock places his hand at the junction of the nerves in the neck, applies light pressure and catches the sagging, semi-conscious Human. "...you son of a bitch...what'd you do to me..."

Spock pulls the shirtless, barefooted McCoy into an embrace and whispers: "Ensuring that you do not attempt any additional foolishness."

McCoy has become dazed, lifeless in his arms, this cannot be on account of the very weak nerve-pinch. After a few moments, the man fights to speak. Spock cannot be certain if the wetness around the man's eyes is due to the heavy rain dripping from his hair, or are they tears. The doctor begins to shake in Spock's arms, there is a chuckle and a cough. "I can't even jump off a fucking bridge...Spock... I've been up here for hours walking back and forth. I'm terrified... of living...of dying...of heights..." McCoy coughs again. Spock holds the man though with what seems like painful spasms. The doctor's face is racked with pain. "God, I'm freezing..."

"I must get you out of here."

McCoy is unsteady, cannot walk unaided. Spock supports the doctor with an arm around the waist. A crowd of onlookers, underneath umbrellas, whisper, stare, point. "Wait..." McCoy stops and turns around. "My stuff...where is it? I left it right here..."

"Does anyone know what happened to this man's belongings?" Spock demands of the crowd, peering out at them all. No one responds, they simply stare back, vacantly. "Come, McCoy." Spock tugs on his arm. "Before we are apprehended."

McCoy is murmuring, obviously disoriented: "No...wait...I left it here...my shirt, my shoes...my jacket...my bag...my ring...where's my ring? They even took my ring?"

"They are only possessions." Spock tugs on McCoy, begins to pull him along, the crowd staring. "Come."

"No..." McCoy whines, "I've lost...everything..."

"Come." He yanks his own knitted hat off and pulls it over McCoy's head. There are more comments of what appears to be approval when the crowd sees his ears, however no one will offer assistance. He removes his jacket, slides it onto the shivering McCoy, fastens it.

"I can't believe it..." the doctor is still murmuring, apparently delirious.

He slides an arm around McCoy's waist, leads him slowly down the sidewalk along the span of the bridge to the San Francisco side.

A stranger comes up from behind them to walk up next them, holds an umbrella over them to shield them from the now pouring rain. "Not gonna get an answer asking tourists anything," the man quips. "Need to get him to a hospital," he says to Spock, nodding over at the disheveled, pale McCoy.

"I'm... fine," McCoy manages to reply in between hacking coughs and chattering teeth.

"You don't look fine to me."

"Who...asked you... anyways?" McCoy snaps back.

"We appreciate your assistance." Spock's grip grows tighter on the doctor's arm. "Please lead us to the nearest medical facility."

"Hold it right there!"

* * *

Of course they would now be stopped by the authorities.

Spock, next to the police car, resists the urge to smack his hand against it, as he makes another feeble attempt to communicate with the policebot. Meanwhile a shivering McCoy is handcuffed, asked three times what activity he was planning on performing on the bridge this morning, (could they not have seen what he was up to from their sensors? why must they repeatedly ask?) and when McCoy fails to give an answer other than "huh?" he is unceremoniously shoved into the backseat of the transport.

"Where are you taking him?" Spock respectfully demands. The query is ignored, so he asks again and again: "I wish to know where you are taking him."

"The city lockup."

McCoy is visible through the window, leaning against the misty glass. Spock attempts to explain--a ghost of emotion in his voice: "My friend is in severe physical and emotional distress, I do not know where the city lockup is located. My friend requires medical attention--"

"If you do not move off the bridge, you shall be taken into custody."

At the moment the idea sounds perfectly reasonable, at least he will be able to keep an eye on McCoy. "Please do."

"As you wish." The bot, many times stronger than he, metal, flawlessly logical and irritatingly solid, forces him around and into an arrest stance, bends him over the car, legs apart. Cold metal handcuffs are slapped onto his wrists with a little more force than is completely necessary.

It is the touch of a scanner against his genitalia that makes him flinch. "I assure you, I do not have a weapon. I am merely concerned about the wellbeing of my friend and his impending location--"

"You shall be joining him."

"Excellent, I am delighted to be your guest--"

"Quiet." He is pushed into the back of the patrol car.

* * *

He is behind McCoy, arms around the man, supporting him as the doctor leans face forward into the police cell toilet, coughing up frothing red blood.

Attempted suicide or not, at this rate, without medical attention McCoy will certainly die.   
"I will fetch help." He stands up, letting go of the doctor, who promptly slumps to the floor.

"Don't leave me..." McCoy says into his arm. He is clothed in a jail sweatshirt, but still barefoot, and shaking uncontrollably. "Dammit, don't leave me..."

"I am right here." Spock hits the wall comm-link with a fist. "My friend is seriously ill. Please assist us."

There is a moment's silence, most likely whoever is communicating with him is now studying them through the view screen. "We'll send a nurse."

"Hurry." There is no more reply and the link is broken.

The cell door is opened and the nurse in a white uniform, appears. He hovers over McCoy who now lays barely conscious in a fetal position. The medical scanner is whirling and the nurse glances at the readout. "Shit..." He flips open his cellphone. "This one's in bad shape. Internal bleeding." There is a pause as the nurse listens to instructions, gives some coordinates over the phone, then says: "Two to beam over."

"Beam over?" Spock asks him. "I wish to accompany you both to the hospital."

"Sorry." The nurse shrugs. "Nothing I can do." At that instant, there is a loud hum. McCoy and the nurse fade away in a transporter beam.  
__________________  
On to Chapter 6


	6. Vigil Keeping

It had been five point two seven hours, since McCoy had dematerialized in the transporter beam. Additionally, it had been four point three five seven hours since Spock had missed his Starfleet entry appointment.

He does not bother to resist an audible groan of dismay.

He would have been in the Starfleet Administration Office at this very moment, been sworn under oath, filled out his paperwork. He would be inspecting his newly assigned quarters, placing his dufflebag in his closet, donning his cadet uniform, meeting his new roommate, receiving his schedule of required first year classes.

Instead he was currently sitting here on this jail cot.

Was he mad? He had come all this way, made it from Vulcan to San Francisco, and now unbelievably, he had blown his only chance at entering Starfleet Academy. It was all over. That was that. He surmised his next move would be to return to Vulcan and enter the Science Academy. Just like Father had wished (demanded) of him.

What of McCoy? Could Spock simply return to Vulcan, leave the Human behind, where ever he was? Perhaps he refused to admit it, but he could not bear the thought of it. He was confident that he had made the correct (logical) choice of sacrificing his Earth based career to assist the doctor, Starfleet is (was) less important than the status of McCoy's life, McCoy would be dead were it not for his intervention. (correct?)

McCoy most likely WAS dead, and yet, he found himself clinging onto the scrap of hope that McCoy might be alive.

Why was he so...obsessed with this Human? That might be answered with simple logic. The continuation of all lifeforms is a basic tenant of Surakian teaching. Teachings of which he had sworn to his father, his father's father, and all of Vulcan--in order to live as a Vulcan--he would uphold--it is his duty to uphold...

"My duty," he whispers. He squeezes the metal slats of the cot. It makes a slight noise of protest under the strain. He stands up, calmly, and makes his way to the wall-comm. Once again he presses the button. Deliberately. Calmly.

" _What is the nature of your emergency_?" the disinterested, disembodied voice asks of him.

No doubt this rather...negative attitude...is occurring because it is anticipated that he will respond with the same query, that he has asked every thirty standard minutes. "I wish to know the location of my friend." (he is beyond politely asking, now it is a demand.)

" _We are not at liberty to release that information at this time._ "

"I need--" (need?) "I wish to know if he is alive."

A moment's silence, then the voice begins: " _I am sorry..._ "

What? His eyes widen, his breathing increases, his heart... illogically pounding...McCoy is...dead?

" _...but I cannot release the hospital information to an inmate at this time._ "

He swallows and grits his teeth. (control) "I see."

" _Please call us when there is a true emergency._ "

"This is a true emergency," he counters.

" _I meant an emergency occurring inside your cell._ "

It would be inherently refreshing to actually be Leonard McCoy so one could shriek out a vulgar Human obscenity at the wall comn. Certainly he has now heard every one of those in existence since his first day on Earth. McCoy himself had used a selection of them to chose from, and one can hear the foulest epitaphs shouted from the other cells.

However, he is a Vulcan, as he keeps reminding himself. "Wait a moment," he insists with a edge of desperation.

A sigh from the wall comm. " _Yes_?"

"I have yet to be allowed to make a phone call."

" _Phone call, huh? You've been watching way too many crime dramas. You don't get that right away. You get it when we are finished processing you._ "

"It takes five point three hours to process me?"

" _It would have been faster, but you didn't have any form of I.D. We had to look you up by your fingerprints. Not carrying I.D is illegal._ "

"My identification card was stolen," he attempts to explain.

If he and Father were still communicating with each other, he would alert his jailers just who they where holding in their cell. Surely they would know who his father was, anyway, based on the information gleaned from his fingerprints. However, they have said nothing that implies that they are aware of this, nor have they explained why it would take them five hours to discover this.

Keeping him, a first offender, in this jail without sufficient cause could become an interstellar incident. He cannot ration out any reasonable cause to hold him here, other than climbing over the side of the barrier of the Golden Gate Bridge. True, the action is indeed a misdemeanor, but he did explain to his jailers, repeatedly, that he was attempting to rescue his friend.

Perhaps he should have them contact his parents. Unfortunately, the transmission would take weeks to arrive and the response even longer. He must not remain here that long. At any rate, Father would most likely communicate (in the most polite language of course) that he would be content to allow his son to sit here and rot in prison for as long as they so wished. Mother would impress upon Father to help, and Father would...reluctantly render assistance in the...scandal... but he does not wish for Father's begrudging help, ever.

He attempts this tactic: "I am due to enter Starfleet Academy."

" _One moment._ " There is another silence, then: " _Someone will be with you shortly._ " A click then the wall-comm is silent. Success? Fascinating.

The side hatch opens up, an iPhone is thrust into the slot. He quickly snatches it up.

" _You have five minutes_!" is yelled out at him before the slot slams shut.

 

* * *

He is in full lotus position on the cot, eyes closed, hands together in the sign of the double 'Shin'--signifying to his new cellmate that he is in meditation, or perhaps in prayer--to dissuade the curious Human from attempting to communicate with him.

It is cold in here, very cold. He longs for Mother's knitted beanie once again (McCoy was wearing it). There is no blanket available in which to wrap himself. However the cold is merely an annoyance, not a threat.

The light meditation attempt was also necessary to keep one's mind from dwelling on the...indignity...of being placed on hold for nearly the entire five minutes one was allotted for the phone transmission. Just as he was to speak to his future C.O to explain his predicament, he was made, by the jailers, to end the call.

Mediation was additionally necessary to keep one's mind from dwelling on the various dire scenarios. The...most irrational scenes the mind unwillingly is able to conjure up. McCoy is lying in a morgue. Lying on an ice cold metal slab. Waiting to be identified. The body so very cold. Perhaps by now they are performing an autopsy. Perhaps they--

One must stop being so emotional. If McCoy is dead...then he must accept that he is dead--Stop this. There is no reason to jump to conclusion...and there is no reason why McCoy should affect one in this way. Accept what is. And breathe.

Spock sighs loudly, allowing himself that physical expression of frustration at least. His silent cellmate glances up at him, startled. He raises an eyebrow at the Human. The Human's blue eyes--as blue as McCoy's-- finally settle for staring at his ears.

* * *

He is immersed in a deeper level of meditation when he hears the door to his cell being opened. It is getting rather late in the evening, the local violent inebriates shall be filing in to become overnight guests as well. He believes for a moment that he has heard his name called, but he is in deep meditation--

"Spock!" is said louder. His head snaps up. "You've been bailed out. Come with me."

He follows the guard, puts his signature on an iPADD, has his meager possessions returned to him. He promptly fishes another hat out of his dufflebag and puts it on. He is escorted to the foyer to discover the stranger whom he met on the Golden Gate Bridge, waiting for him.

"Hi there," the man says. "Took me forever to find you. Sorry."

"Thank you," Spock says with more surprise evident in his voice than he is comfortable with. He had not expected to ever see the stranger who had helped them, ever again.

"No problem. I found out where your friend is, too."

"Again, I thank you. Sir."

"I'm Jim," the young man replies. "Jim Kirk, nice to meet you."

* * *

"Mercy Hospital," Jim tells him as soon as they are outside. It is a considerable distance from the city lockup. Nevertheless Spock elects to run the entire route, after waiting at the bus stop five point three two seven minutes and seeing no bus available. Jim whips out his iPhone. GPS directs them and Jim keeps in step with Spock the entire way.

They reach the hospital, with Jim slightly out of breath. They head to the main reception, where they discover a considerable line reaching back to the front door.

They quietly wait one standard hour to reach the front of the queue.

The receptionist looks up at them, a bored look in his eyes. "Patient name?"

"Leonard McCoy."

The receptionist types in the info on his iPADD. "Nope. Sorry. Nobody here by that name."

Spock turns to Jim. "Are you certain that he is at this particular location?"

"I'm positive." Jim turns to the receptionist. "Look it up again."

"I already looked it up. Nobody here by that name."

"Just..." Jim smacks his hand on the desk. "Please. Try once more."

The receptionist rolls his eyes and types in the name once again. "No 'Leonard McCoy' here. Next please!"

"Is there another hospital in the vicinity?" Spock asks. "My friend was transported to a hospital from the city jail."

"Without a name I can't look him up for you. If you don't leave I will call security. Next!"

"John Doe," Jim says suddenly. "Try that."

The name is typed into the iPADD. "They brought in a John Doe from City Lockup early this morning."

"Which room?" Jim demands.

"Room 607. It's on the..." They are into the hallway before they can hear the rest...

Till they come across the guard in front of the lift. "Hold on there," he says. "Without a visitor's pass you can't enter the elevator."

Jim huffs at the guard: "It's an emergency!"

"You'll need a visitor's pass to visit patients. You can get that in reception."

"We already waited in that long line," Jim protests. "The receptionist didn't say a Goddamned thing about any pass."

"Sorry. You'll have to wait in it again."

"We can't...because...His wife is having a baby," Jim tells the guard.

Spock raises an eyebrow at Jim. "I do not have a wife."

Jim touches his own forehead. "Spock. You wife's in labor, don't you remember? You're the one who got her in that condition." He turns to the guard, chuckling slightly. "Nervous father. We're late. She's pushing already. We were at work, you see. He drove like a maniac to get here. You should have seen all the redlights he ran."

"Your wife's in labor?" the guard asks.

"Uh...yes," Spock replies hesitantly. "He is."

The guard places a pink sticker on Spock's chest. "Elevator's through there, sir. Congrat..."

Kirk and Spock are in the lift, with the doors closing them in, before they hear anything else.

* * *

They reach level 6 and attempt to stride into room 607, but they are barred by a nurse. "Sorry sir, you can't come in here. The labor/delivery suites are on level 2."

"I am here to see a man whom was brought in this morning, listed as 'John Doe'."

"Come with me." She leads him to the level 6 reception desk.

"Family member, partner or friend?" is asked of him.

He opens his mouth to say 'friend' but Jim answers for him: "Partner."

He looks over at Jim, askance, till the nurse hands him a mediPADD. "Fill this out. Sit over there please." He stands there, sighing mightily, till Jim takes him by the arm and sits him down in the waiting area.

Spock clicks though all the info, not entirely certain what he is meant to put down and not knowing McCoy's home address. Nor is he aware his past medical history or allergies, but no doubt some of that would be detected by telemetric devices anyway.

"Put your home address down for him," Jim whispers. "And don't forget to check 'partner'."

"Jim, he is merely a friend, I fail to see--"

"You'll get better service here. Trust me."

He does so, returns the iPADD to the nurse, who waves it in front of another computer. "His name is Leonard McCoy?"

"Yes."

"You wish to be responsible for him?"

"Yes."

"What's his social security number?"

"I do not know."

"It says here, Mr. Spock, that you possess a Vulcan Insurance Number. You want to use that for him, or just keep him on the AHS?"

He shrugs like he has seen McCoy do many a time, and yet again Jim answers for him: "Insurance Number." He raises an eyebrow at Jim, Jim nods at him with a knowing look.

Spock recites the number as the nurse keys in the digits.

"It says here, that he's currently in surgery," the nurse finally says. "You'll have to wait right over there."

"McCoy was brought in this morning. He is still in surgery?"

She glances at her monitor. "This is the second time. There was some complications before."

"What sort of--"

"You'll have to wait over there."

* * *

He waits for another two standard hours in the assigned 'waiting area' (not on tenderhooks). Jim sits silently next to him. Finally, another nurse appears. "You're here for Leonard McCoy?"

He stands up. "I am."

"He's recovering in room 699, you can go see him now." The nurse hands him an entry card.

* * *

Jim and Spock wander down the vast maze of corridors on Level 6, checking the wall map computer. It is out of order. (of course) They move on, attempting to find room 699 by simply looking at all the room numbers. The iPhone GPS is also inoperable due to the heavy shielding of the walls.

"This numbering system makes absolutely no sense," Jim complains. "How can it be 650 over here, but 621 right across from it?"

"Jim, It has occurred to me that we are not entirely certain that it is actually Dr. McCoy as a patient in this hospital. They brought him in under the name 'John Doe'." Which was frustrating in and of itself. He had specifically given McCoy's full name to his jailers, so his friend could be traced. Evidently they did not forward the information to the hospital staff.

"Your friend's a doctor?"

"Yes. A physician."

"Oooh, they make the worst patients. So I've heard." Seemingly encouraged by Spock's glare, he continues: "Wouldn't it be funny, if, after all this time waiting, we discovered they had the wrong guy?"

"No, it would most certainly NOT be humorous."

"You a Vulcan?"

"I am."

"Well, that's why it wouldn't be funny. You guys don't find anything funny."

"I do not think anyone would find that funny, Jim."

"Maybe not. Sorry."

They finally reach room 699 and halt in front of the closed doors. "Well, this is it," Jim says. "We need a drum roll or something."

"Jim."

"Sorry. Just trying to lighten the mood. Open the door."

He runs the entry card in front of the sensor and the door obediently slides open. They step though.

Spock stands staring at the foot of the bed.

Jim looks at Spock and smiles. "That's your guy, right? I forgot what he looked like."

Spock nods, still staring at McCoy. The bruise that had been on his face, right underneath his eye, is now gone, leaving unblemished skin. McCoy is even clean shaven. Somebody had shaved his face.

"Well, okay then." Jim says, breaking Spock's reverie. "Good luck. I'll leave you to camp out at his bedside."

"I cannot thank you enough, Jim."

"I, uh, do really have to get going. I have an appointment with Starfleet Academy."

Spock looks up at Jim. "Indeed?"

"Yeah, thought I'd try to become a Starship captain someday. Been a dream of mine."

Spock nods at him. "Ah."

"You should join, they could use somebody like you," Jim replies.

"Perhaps." His voice is strained.

* * *

An unconscious Leonard McCoy has been muttering phrases in Latin such as: "Caelum non animum mutant qui mare currunt." (those who cross the sea change only their climate, not their minds.)

"Horace?" Spock whispers to him.

"Oh...He doesn't know what he's on about." The night duty nurse smiles comfortingly at him and indicates with a hand at McCoy. "Sometimes... patients say bizarre things while coming out of anesthesia."

McCoy appears peaceful, even younger, untroubled. The breathing is even and deep. Now... there is a small smile evident at the corner of the lips. There is a soft breathy, barely audible giggle. Ah, the man must be dreaming of his ex-wife. Then from McCoy there is a whispered: "Spock, stop that..."

He feels a blush coming to his ears as he notices the nurse's eyes on him. "He'll be waking up soon," she says and exits.

It is quiet, and they are alone. He reaches over, takes McCoy's hand.

It is warm.

* * *

The eyes are first vacant, then they blink. The gaze darts around the room as the man silently takes in his surroundings: the beeps of the biobed, the walls, the window, then notices who is sitting next to him and croaks out: "I reckon that damned hat comes back in style about once every forty years."

Fascinating. McCoy has woken up in a strange location-and the first thing the man communicates is a sarcastic remark regarding Spock's supplemental choice of headwear? (a straw trilby).

McCoy says nothing else for a long interval, then mutters: "I'm alive."

"Obviously." Spock sits properly, with hands steepled, making certain, (this time), that the emotion (profound relief) is not evident in his voice.

McCoy seems to take umbrage. "Like you'd care, you damned hobgoblin." Spock does not reply to this, and apparently McCoy is moved to ask him: "You alright, Spock?"

"I am quite well, thank you."

"Glad to hear it," McCoy says, closes his eyes for a long moment. So long, it seems that McCoy has nodded off, till he opens them again, sighs out: "Oh..."

"Are you in discomfort?"

"A little. Distract me."

"Do you know where you are?" Spock asks him gently.

"Well," McCoy says. He voice no longer croaks, yet it is extremely weakened. "Logic would clearly dictate, based on my surroundings, and this annoying beeping of my telemetry, I'm in a hospital bed, with you playing the supporting role of vigil keeper. What'd I do, almost bleed out, and you found me unconscious somewhere?"

Spock grimaces at McCoy's choice of words. "You are here due to complications stemming from your physical injuries sustained from the attack, and also..." he relays what he had overheard from the nurses and stares hard at McCoy for emphasis, "for psychiatric observation."

"Psychiatric observation?" McCoy looks away. "Right. That."

"I trust," Spock says, reaches over and briefly touches the Human's shoulder. "That you will never attempt suicide again."

McCoy does not comment, but shifts awkwardly away from him. He pulls down his thin white blanket, spins the metallic hospital bracelet on his wrist with a finger, seemingly in deep thought. He then glances down at the garment he is dressed in, the eyebrow furrowed in annoyance. "Flimsy ass medical gown. No wonder I'm freezing."

"Shall I ask the nurse for an additional blanket?"

"No. What the hell are you even doing here? Aren't you supposed to be in Starfleet by now? Or did they grant you some personal leave already to babysit me? That'll look good on the ol' transcripts."

"I wish to know what your future intentions will be."

"I'm fine, now. I won't try to jump off any more bridges," McCoy says, (a little too upbeat for Spock's liking--it sounds entirely too insincere.)

"I am not convinced," Spock says, tightly.

McCoy looks up startled, studies him, intently. "You're angry."

"I am not angry."

"Yes you are. I know that icy look. You could freeze plutonium with that look."

"There is no 'look'. I am a Vulcan."

McCoy smirks at him. "Half-Vulcan."

He takes a deep breath, looks straight ahead, says quietly: "I believe you used me to get to San Francisco, with the sole intention of jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge."

"I didn't use you," McCoy hisses.

"Then what precisely did you do, Doctor?"

"I didn't use you. I just happened to hitch a ride with you out to California. I don't even know you... nor do I care to." McCoy dismisses him with a wave. "Get out of here, and get back to Starfleet where you belong. We'll both be a lot happier."

"My entry into Starfleet...has been postponed."

"Postponed? What do you mean, postponed?"

"I missed my appointment, while we were both imprisoned."

"Imprisoned? When?" McCoy has a faraway look to his eyes.

"You do not remember?"

"No."

"We were arrested together, do you not remember any of that?"

"I remember being up on the bridge...hanging off the ledge...cold as hell up there...I remember you up there with me. But that's all. So what happened next? We got arrested?" McCoy prompts.

"Yes. While there, you were ill. Bleeding internally, vomiting, in severe shock. They took you to hospital. I remained behind in prison."

"It's called 'jail' Spock, 'prison' is for--"

"The point is, Doctor, that I remained behind, in the cell, unable to enter Starfleet." (and uncertain if McCoy was dead or alive.)

"Lemme guess, no matter how much you begged, they wouldn't let you out in time."

Spock hesitates for three point two seconds. "I did not beg."

Now it is McCoy's turn to exhibit anger. "You missed out because of me!"

Spock hesitates again. "Doctor--"

"I should have jumped." McCoy pounds a fist on his bed. "Fuck!"

"That comment is precisely why you are on psychiatric observation."

"Look, I didn't mean it."

"You did... mean it."

"Get out of here, hobgoblin! You don't need to be here, watching over me. I said I was fine!"

"You are not fine," he finds himself snapping. Takes a deep breath. (control)

"Ow!" McCoy's attention is diverted, his hands are now traveling down, out of sight, underneath the blanket. "Son of a bitch!"

"Leonard..."

McCoy is grimacing. Apparently he is performing some sort of procedure on himself. "Damned catheter...what the hell is wrong with these people...I'm not a Goddamned invalid..."

"Should you--?"

McCoy holds up a thin tube attached to a bag and lays it aside on the bedside table. "You were saying?"

"Should you remove a catheter without permission?"

"I don't need anybody's permission...I can remove whatever the hell I want to...and you...get out! Leave me the hell alone!" He throws the sheet back--exposing the fact that he is not wearing a thing underneath the medical gown-with an embarrassed smile he makes an swift attempt to cover himself up.

"I see you are awake, Mr. McCoy." A physician enters with her mediPADD and stands smiling at the foot of McCoy's bed.

McCoy makes no attempt to correct the title the physician addresses him with, but says: "What'r you? A first year resident?"

"I'm an intern."

"Oh, that's dandy." There is a scowl. "Lemme see my chart."

The intern hesitates, then hands the mediPADD over to McCoy, who scans it. The eyes widen for a brief second in what appears to alarm, but the mouth scoffs: "Hmph..."

"You disagree with the diagnosis and treatment, Mr. McCoy?"

"Now that you've managed to patch me up, Doctor, I want out of here." McCoy tosses the PADD back to her.

"Well, Mr. McCoy," the intern replies, "that is entirely up to you."

"If it's entirely up to me, then now's the time." McCoy snaps his fingers at Spock. "You! Bring me my clothes. I'm outta here."

"If you can walk, you may do so," the intern says. "I'd be willing to discharge you to your boyfriend's care. I don't think you're a threat anymore to yourself, one could argue you were on so many drugs due to the physical pain and severity of your injuries that you're weren't thinking clearly. Your bail has been met. I will still need to have my attending and the psychiatric specialist run a complete examination on you."

"You do that. Bring your attending and specialists. I'll pass any damned test they want to throw at me. Finally I'll talk to somebody who actually knows what the hell they're doing." He pauses and realizes: "Wait a minute...boyfriend?"

"It says here you went ahead and pulled your catheter out," the intern notes. "You should have left it to a nurse. You'll need assistance to the bathroom."

"I can make it just fine on my own, Doctor," McCoy informs her.

The intern looks up and smiles. "Sure, just like you've been doing so far. Well, if your boyfriend is willing to assist you to the bathroom, that would alright with me. I'm the nurses would also appreciate it." She turns on her heel and walks out.

"Great, I get a smart mouthed punk as a personal physician," McCoy grumbles.

Spock gets up from his chair. "Allow me."

"Beneficium accipere libertatem est vendere, Spock." (to accept a favor is to sell one's freedom)

Spock reaches down, picks up the man under the arms, stands him up. McCoy grunts, flips himself around and bends over onto the bed. The gown opens, exposing the doctor's nude, smooth, shapely derriere.

"Stop staring at my naked ass, pervert," is ground out.

"I am not staring at your 'ass'. I am simply rendering you assistance. This is the quickest way."

"Sure it is. Looks like you wanna take me, right here on this hospital bed."

Spock is aware, (as he has his hands around the man's narrow waist at this point and also based on the sarcastic comments), that McCoy is experiencing some uneasiness at this physical intimacy. They have seen each other in the nude before on various occasions since making their acquaintance. Granted, McCoy was skittish on those occasions as well. They had kissed on the Golden Gate Bridge--though McCoy will most certainly not remember it. Perhaps that was for the best.

Spock ignores the onslaught of conflicting feelings emanating from and resulting from his touch. A trace of embarrassment, (not arousal) and some physical pain that the doctor is attempting to ignore.

He slides the doctor towards him (by the waist), gently spins the man around to a better position, puts an arm under the bare legs and hoists the doctor up, carrying him as a Human groom would a bride. He has never carried anyone in this way before (never touched anyone in this way before) and the man is surprisingly light.

McCoy leans his head against Spock's shoulder. "Well, this is comfy. This what you missed Starfleet for, to carry my sorry ass around." They are nearly at the bathroom when McCoy says: "Wait a minute. Spock?"

"Yes, Doctor?"

"I'm in a private room."

"How observant of you, Dr. McCoy."

"Do I have some sort of communicable disease or something else that they're not telling me about?"

"Negative."

"Then, flower, would you mind--terribly much--telling me what the hell is going on? Private hospital rooms aren't covered by the AHS."

Flower? He rolls his eyes at the mischevious grin, like he has seen McCoy do many a time. "No, they are not."

McCoy relaxes minutely in Spock's arms, though there is still the underlying unease. "So nice and warm," he whispers. "Are you going to tell me how you got me a private room, sailor?"

"That is enough with the nick-names, Doctor."

"You started it... by staring at my naked ass."

They reach the tiny bathroom, where Spock swoops the unsteady man onto his feet, standing him in front of the toilet. "I used my Health Insurance. I am the son of an ambassador."

"You are not," McCoy scoffs and grimaces when his bare feet touch the bathroom tiles. You told me your dad attended the Vulcan Science Academy."

"He did, before he became an ambassador."

"Really? That means I get fancy treatment and I don't have to pay anything."

"Essentially correct."

"Because you lied and told them I was your partner." McCoy shakes his head. "Spock, I can't accept that. I don't deserve this, somebody else needs this room and getting it by lying to the hospital staff to get special--"

"The private room was available. They falsely believe I am your partner. I did not correct them." That is, of course, a blatant lie, but it is too much effort at this time to actually explain the truth to Leonard McCoy. That he himself had checked the 'partner' box, prompted by Jim. Nobody else shall know the difference.

McCoy snickers. Spock still must hold onto him to keep him steady, however the uncomfortable emotions are gone, replaced by profound gratitude. "Your dad's really an ambassador?"

"Yes. Ambassador Sarek of Vulcan."

"Huh, no kidding? I've heard of him." There is a long silence, then: "Spock?"

"Yes, Doctor?"

"You gonna hold it for me, too?"

He takes a moment. "Hold what?"

"Get out of here so I can pee, Spock."

He waits. "You are certain that you do not require my assistance?"

McCoy hesitates for a moment. "You DO want to hold it."

Perhaps McCoy is not the only one who can be mischievous. His mouth twitches. "Hold what?"

McCoy is staring at him, obviously notices the twitch (the man smiles and bats his eyelashes). "My dick."

"Dick, an offensive term for the Penis. Or, in the past a Human male nick-name."

McCoy is at nearly the exact same height as he or perhaps a few centimeters shorter and suddenly he can feel the other exhale as the mouth is very close to his own. The man breathes out: "Stop being so stupid."

"I resent the accusation, I am merely attempting to discern your vulgar venac--mmmph..." McCoy's mouth is now warm and soft, chaste against his own. Whether or not McCoy is currently in his right mind is debatable. However he does not wish to resist an advance at this time. He should, but he does not wish to. He now feels intense desire radiating from the other as McCoy's arms slide around his waist.

Before the kiss can deepen the the man abruptly pulls back.

"I really do have to piss and you're making it very difficult to suppress an erection. You...uh...do know what those are, correct?"

"Of course." Spock places his own hands on top of the doctor's, spins the man around and places McCoy's hands on the very cold, metal, railing so that he may hold himself up.

"You do get them, right?" McCoy is enquiring of him.

When I allow myself to, he does not say. Instead he replies smoothly: "Doctor, I will...leave you to urinate in peace." He turns to go, making certain that the barefooted, gown-clad Human is stable, who is already reaching underneath his gown.

"Stay here," McCoy says softly. "I need you...keep me steady."

Spock nods and stays where he is. The teasing has come to an end. He holds on to McCoy's shoulders as the man lets out a soft cry of pain before he finally urinates.  
____________________  
On to Chapter 7


	7. Doctors Make the Worst Patients

_3am_

"Spock?"

His head snaps up at the sound of his name. He had dozed off, his hand has slipped from McCoy's grasp. The usual sounds from the hospital corridor are silent, the room pitch black. The doctor is panicky, calling out for him, reaching out, searching for him, instead hitting the arm of the chair where Spock is sitting. "Where are you?"

"I am here." He lifts up the blanket and slides into the bed next to McCoy. The other immediately snuggles up to the warmth of his body, nestles in comfortably against him, arm around his waist, head in the crook of his arm.

"Hmm, you're so warm. I'd thought you'd gone." There is a sigh and McCoy relaxes back into sleep.

* * *

"You woke me up to draw a simple blood sample, kid?" Spock opens his eyes to discover the light is on and a phlebotomist is standing very uncomfortably near the foot of the bed, staring hard at his ears (the trilby long ago put away, stuffed into Spock's duffle bag). McCoy is positively hissing at the young tech: "It's fucking 5 o'clock in the morning!"

"I'm only doing my job, sir."

"Then do it, and get out." Spock sits up, and as he does so, he touches McCoy's hand in an attempt to calm the man, but McCoy will not be placated. "Kid doesn't even need to break the damned skin with these new tension type III's, all he would have to have done his held up the goddamned hypo-"

"You need to pull back your sleeve, sir."

"Oh, for the love of God."

The phlebotomist shrugs and draws the sample.

A nurse walks in with a menu PADD under her arm and glares at Spock. "I'm sorry, sir, but I can't have you sitting on the patient's bed."

"Of course." Spock relocates to the chair.

The nurse strides over to the window, touches it and it becomes transparent, letting the bright morning light into the room. So much for McCoy getting any additional rest this day. She attempts to hand McCoy the menuPADD and he protests and waves it off. "I'm not hungry."

"You need to indicate your food choices."

He finally takes the PADD from her. "I just want coffee."

"I'll have to confirm if you're allowed to have that."

"Why wouldn't I be allowed to have coffee?"

"You're allowed decaffeinated coffee."

"No, I want real coffee, with caffeine, thank you very much."

"Then, I'm afraid I'll have to find out if you can have that."

"Are you worried about some sort of drug interaction? To caffeine?"

"I'm not...You'll have to speak with the attending."

"You're goddamned right I'm gonna speak to the attending."

* * *

 _8am_

"Here, eat some of this," McCoy slides the plate across the fold out table at Spock. Much of the breakfast remains.

"You must finish your meal, to regain your strength."

"I don't want it, you eat it. I just wanted some damned coffee." The staff had refused to budge about giving him the coffee and now McCoy's mood was downright foul.

Spock takes a bite of the proffered potatoes. If McCoy does not want the food, then there is no sense in it going to waste. "Oh..." He cannot resist making a face at the taste. "This is awful."

"We're gonna starve to death in here, Spock."

"Indeed."

"They're gonna stuff me with drugs I don't need and I'll starve. I know it."

"If you do not eat, they might force-feed you."

"Intravenous feeding is better than this shit. Eat some more. You're getting too thin."

McCoy waves at him. "Just choke it down."

"You are too thin as well."

"At least eat the muffin, Spock."

"I cannot. The food is inedible."

"Stop being so over-dramatic. I'm sure it's edible for Vulcans. It's got blueberries in it."

Spock examines the muffin. "Where?"

"They're there."

He does like blueberries, so he acquiesces, and as to be expected, as soon as he takes a tentative bite of the muffin, the nurse re-enters. "Sorry, sir. I can't have you eating the patient's food."

* * *

 _9am_

"Sir, you'll have to leave while I examine the patient."

"I want Spock to stay," McCoy protests.

The attending physician says apologetically: "I always kick the husbands out, too."

It would be better to grant McCoy some privacy, perhaps there are some things that the doctor might wish to discuss in his absence. "I shall attempt to locate a jam free zone to utilize my iPhone."

"Out on the balcony, on this floor."

He nods and heads out of the room.

After some wrong turns he manages to locate the small balcony where he is able to get a signal. On this balcony are picnic tables, he sits far enough away from where there is a physician seated and talking rather loudly and laughing into his phone, and a few nurses eating and chatting animatedly. He ignores the noise and types out an email to Starfleet Academy.

When Spock eventually returns to McCoy's room, he is sitting there, quietly, arms folded.

* * *

 _10am_

An orderly enters the room, pushing a wheelchair. "I need to change your bed sheets," he cheerfully explains to McCoy. "I'll just transfer you into this."

"I can walk. Why don't I just go take a shower while you change them?"

"I have to see if the nurses have said if it's allowed."

"I need permission to take a shower?" McCoy sputters.

"Yes, sir."

Spock intervenes at the man's exasperated sigh. "Perhaps we should call the nurses station for permission. The orderly is only trying to perform his duty."

The orderly nods. "That's right. I am only trying to do-"

"Shut up, Spock," McCoy huffs and sulks for a few moments. "Fine. How about I get up and call the nurses station to ask permission for my shower." He throws his hands up. "That make everybody happy?"

McCoy is ambulatory, but still extremely weak. Spock helps him over to the wall-comm panel and with a murderous scowl, McCoy pushes the button.

"Yes?"

"I would like permission to take a shower," McCoy says, very politely. He seems to consider it for a moment then adds: "Please."

"Sorry sir, you won't be able to take a shower for a few hours at least. The male nurses are all helping other patients."

"You can send a female nurse, I don't mind." He grins at Spock. "If they've seen one set of male genitalia, they've seen 'em all."

"Sorry sir, you must have a male nurse."

"Then I'll just do it myself," McCoy informs her. "The kid's changing my bedding. So you see, right now is the perfect time."

"Sorry sir, for liability reasons, we can't have you do it unsupervised and no male nurses are available."

"If I did happen to fall in the shower, I won't hold you liable, sweetheart. Honest."

"I'm sorry, Mr. McCoy."

"That's...Dr. McCoy," he corrects her. "I'm a doctor."

"Now that doesn't surprise me," she snaps and ends the transmission.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" McCoy grumbles, slumping against the wall, a defeated look on his face.

Suddenly the orderly pipes up: "You know...if...your partner wanted to supervise your shower...because a nurse isn't currently available. I certainly wouldn't be able to stop the both of you. You know... if you were so inclined."

That perks McCoy up. "I knew there was a reason I liked you, kid. What's your name, anyway?"

"David."

"That was my father's name. I'm Dr. Leonard McCoy, nice to meet you. You studying to be a nurse, David?"

"No actually...I'm entering medical school next month." The young man is quickly, expertly changing the sheets as he speaks. "I want to be a surgeon."

"I'm a--" McCoy shoots a glance at Spock. "I was... a surgeon, too. I came from Atlanta General."

"Atlanta? What are you doing here?"

"Just...visiting, I guess. You from the South, kid?"

"Yeah, I'm from Jackson, Mississippi. I attended the University of Mississippi for pre-med."

"Ole Miss, huh? That was my alma mater. Where you gonna attend med school out here?"

"I can't afford it so I'm joining Starfleet, they're going to be putting me through at Starfleet Medical. They've got a severe shortage of doctors."

"Do they?" McCoy itches the stubble on his face thoughtfully.

"You should join, Dr. McCoy," the kid says. "Starfleet could use you."

"I'm a doctor not a space cadet." McCoy snaps his fingers at Spock and points to the bathroom.

* * *

 _"There was a young man from Stamboul,  
who soliloguized thus to his tool:  
'You took all my wealth  
And you ruined my health,  
And now you won't pee, you old fool.'"_

McCoy groans and Spock is moved to ask him: "Are you still in discomfort?"

McCoy has one hand on the wall to brace himself and Spock keeps hold of the man's waist to keep him steady. McCoy finishes up, steps back from the toilet and it flushes. "Feels like they scratched up the urethra a little bit. They must of been in a big hurry to get me into surgery. Don't you have to pee, Spock?"

"No."

"I don't think you've pissed or even taken a shit the whole time I've known you."

Spock blushes mildly in his ears. This is a rather intimate discussion that he would never normally have with anyone. "I did, when we first reached San Francisco." At McCoy's disbelieving stare, he adds: "I can refrain for longer periods than a human."

"Well, as long as it doesn't do any damage." McCoy reaches over to wash his hands and Spock picks up the new toothbrush the hospital has provided for McCoy, pulls off the protective plastic wrapper, applies some toothpaste and hands it to him. McCoy smiles wryly in response. "That bad, huh?"

Spock cannot resist the slight upturn of the corner of his lips. McCoy shrugs then proceeds to brush his teeth. When he finishes, he sticks his head in the sink, rinses out his mouth and then the toothbrush. He hands it over to Spock, who applies more toothpaste, then puts it into his own mouth.

McCoy watches him, crinkling up his nose. "Ewww."

Spock pauses in mid brush, raises his eyebrow and pulls it out. "Hmm?"

"Are you out of your Vulcan mind? I just used that toothbrush, Spock. Where's yours?"

"In my bag."

"And you're too lazy to go in the other room and get it?"

Surely it is not wise to leave the doctor in the bathroom unattended at this very moment. "I cannot use yours for the time being?"

"It has my germs on it."

Spock stares incredulously at the toothbrush, then up at McCoy and points out: "We have kissed. I have already contracted any and all possible germs from you."

"We didn't kiss that deeply."

"I fail to understand--"

McCoy seemingly blurts out: "You ever French kiss?"

"French kiss?"

"Yeah, kiss using your tongue."

Ah. For some reason Spock cannot resist asking: "Why is that particular activity called a French kiss?"

McCoy inches up to the sink, next to him, very close, and before one can comment further, McCoy's hand is on the back of his neck, pulling him forward, the mouth is on his. McCoy is initiating another kiss. However, this time the way McCoy is going about it is entirely different. Fascinating. McCoy pulls back and orders: "Relax your mouth."

"My apologies, I was unaware that I was tense in the first place-- _umph_." He feels McCoy's mouth on his once again, feels that McCoy's mouth is open, wet, and this time there is the tip of the other's tongue. The sensation is awkward, unusual, too much to take, and he jerks his head back.

Apparently his face is revealing his thoughts, because McCoy observes: "You don't like that, do you."

"It is not that I do not enjoy it, it is that I have never done this before."

"You're that much of a virgin?" McCoy demands. Spock snatches hold of McCoy's wrist, sliding it down to hold his hand and nods. McCoy blushes in response, bright pink, laughs softly. "I'm your first kiss?"

Spock looks away. "Perhaps."

"No really, am I?"

Spock looks back at the doctor. "I have not had much of an opportunity to engage in this behavior."

"No I suppose not. You Vulcans don't do such illogical actions such as kissing intimately. I wonder how you guys even manage to reproduce."

"The same way you manage to." Spock continues on, "At any rate, the mouth to mouth 'french kiss' in which you are describing is not taboo on Vulcan. However, we do not perform such an act on a casual basis, and I have never witnessed two Vulcans engaged in it in public. It is known as _be'll'T'ainne._ "

While Vulcans can and do kiss with the mouth, it much more enjoyable to utilize the fingers. There is the _xeli'ate_ , the sort of touching one sees between couples on the streets--the permitted public touching. There is the more private hand to hand contact, used during copulation in lieu of penetration, or as a precursor thus. He has seen humans touch in a similar fashion, holding hands, often and in public, but as most humans are not touch telepaths, they would derive no real pleasure from that act of touching. Aparently they prefer to kiss on the mouth, using their tongues.

McCoy is staring intently at his lips. "The tongue...it's uh... it's an erogenous zone. It...can be a prelude to... um..."

"To sexual intercourse."

"Or you could just kiss passionately...on it's own...I guess. It's called making out."

"Making out?"

"Yeah, it's what the kids do, before they move on to the more advanced stuff."

"Children engage in this act on Earth?"

"Not...young ones. Pre-teens...I guess, maybe even younger."

"You have a child."

"Alright, that's enough." McCoy yanks his hand out of Spock's grasp. "Finish brushing your teeth. Just this once you can use my toothbrush."

Spock shakes his head as considers this. "So, Doctor," he points out. "The touching of tongues is desirous, however the sharing of a toothbrush is taboo."

"Alright listen," McCoy shifts uncomfortably. "Even if I was rimming you, fucking you three times a day, sucking you off, I still wouldn't let you use my toothbrush."

"Rimming me?" So much Human vernacular. "Sucking me off? What does that mean?"

"Never mind. Just drop it. Okay?"

"As you wish, doctor. I will not delve to share your toothbrush again."

"Spock!"

"My apologies." Apparently, McCoy has no qualms about previously sharing Spock's underwear and clothing. Just the toothbrush. Spock must admit it is delightful to rile the man up, and McCoy does now appear to be extremely annoyed--

"Quit lollygagging and finish brushing."

Spock rolls his eyes, puts McCoy's toothbrush back into his mouth and resumes. Under McCoy's rather intense glare, he rinses out the tooth brush and places it back into the cup.  
McCoy's gaze suddenly softens. "You have toothpaste all over your mouth." He reaches over, wipes it off Spock's lips. With the contact, Spock closes his eyes and shudders perceptively.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing is the matter, Doctor." He spins the doctor around and begins untying the gown. (there are four ties to undo.) The entire backside is now bare, (the medical gown was not very modest to begin with) and he finds himself running a hand up the spine to the smooth, slim, muscular shoulder. The bruising is gone. As McCoy tilts his head forward Spock's hands slide to the scruff of his neck.

"What are you doing?" McCoy eventually breathes out.

"I am satisfying my curiosity that all your injuries are eradicated."

McCoy whispers in an almost childlike voice: "Why are you even staying...with me?"

"You require my assistance."

"I meant in the hospital...you could have just left me here, after you found out I was gonna be okay."

"At the moment there is little else for me to do. I am waiting for a message from Starfleet Academy. I might as well, wait here."

"Don't fall..." McCoy swallows as Spock trails his hand down the spine. "Don't fall in love...with me. Whatever you do."

"Doctor, I am a Vulcan. The odds of that occurring are six hundred and fifty seven point one three seven to one."

McCoy smiles as he seems to appreciate those odds and he spins around to face Spock, the medical gown slides down his body and pools around his feet. Now he is completely nude and vulnerable in the glaring bathroom light. Spock can feel the vulnerablity radiating from the contact as continues to satisfy his tactile curiosity, tracing a finger down the neck, to the clavicle. There is a faraway look in the man's eyes and he says softly. "Spock."

Spock pulls his hand away."Yes?"

"I can't get...um...you know normally I can't control my physiological responses. I can't get it up." At Spock's curious look he says. "I can't get an erection. Even when you were, just now, touching me."

"Is that unusual?" Vulcan's often did control their own responses to physical stimuli.

"Side effect," McCoy remarks. "Some sort of antidepressant, or something. I can't put my finger on which."

"Ah."

McCoy suddenly grimaces and gingerly steps inside the stall, turns on the shower (water shower) and closes the glass door. Spock remains in the bathroom proper, however he does not enter the shower stall with McCoy, and McCoy does not request him to. McCoy yelps in surprise and Spock calls out: "Doctor, are you alright?"

"The shower's cold."

* * *

 _5pm_

McCoy stares at the dinner in front of him, hatred flashing in his eyes. Green beans and meatloaf, a side of bread, jello and water. He pushes the full plate over to Spock. "You eat this."

"I am a vegetarian."

"You haven't eaten much of anything since you've been here."

"I am able to forgo food."

"Eat the green beans, or whatever they are. They sure as hell don't taste like any green beans I've ever had. But they're something vegetable at least," McCoy says with a defeated demeanor. "Eat the bread, but don't eat the jello, that's colored gelatin."

Spock has an inkling of what gelatin is created from. "Boiled animal hooves and bones?"

"That's right, boiled bones." There is a feeble laugh, it does not reach the blue eyes and Spock quirks an eyebrow. He studies the food, debating whether or not to sample it, ultimately he decides to pass.

An older man in a white coat enters with a PADD under his arm and holds out his hand. "Hello, Mr. McCoy. I'm Dr. Rachett, your assigned psychiatrist."

McCoy does not take the offered hand, nor does he offer a greeting in return. Without any preamble he demands: "Care to tell me, Doctor, what meds you've got me on?"

"Your partner," the psychiatrist is staring at Spock's ears, "will have to leave the room and then I will begin your consult."

McCoy folds his arms, defiantly. "He's not leaving."

There is a glance between the both of them. "Alright. Mr. McCoy--"

"Dr. McCoy."

"You're a doctor?" the psychiatrist asks in an unbelieving tone of voice.

"That's right."

"What kind?" He notes the information on his PADD.

"Why don't you tell me, instead, what med's you've got me on, and I'll let you know whether or not I'm willing to take them, how about that?"

"Dr. McCoy, I can't help you, if you will not allow me to."

"Who said I wanted your help?"

"Well," Dr. Rachett says, smirking, "you actually have no real choice in the matter."

"So then why'd you ask me?" McCoy replies. "If I have no choice, that is."

Dr. Rachett stares at Spock's ears then looks back at McCoy and sighs. "You're 27 years old, correct?"

"Very good," McCoy says in a sarchastic tone.

"You've been put on Valium to ease your withdrawal symptoms from severe alcohol addiction."

"Severe alcohol addition?" McCoy laughs. "And for that you prescribed Valium? What is this, the goddamned dark ages? I've had no withdrawal symptoms."

Dr. Rachett makes a note in his PADD: "Denial of the facts."

"Dammit!"

"Dr. McCoy, a number of recreational drugs were also found in your system. Cannabis, cocaine, exotemoral--"

"Recreational drug usage is not illegal," McCoy replies, "and the last one of those is not recreational. Exotemoral is a analgesic."

"A narcotic analgesic. However, you are correct, recreational drug usage is not illegal."

"So then, if we're clear on that, what's the problem?"

"Why don't you tell me?"

"I'd like to know what other drug are you trying to hook me on, Doctor."

"I placed you on a course of Lithium."

"Lithium? I'm not bipolar," McCoy replies.

"But, you are suicidal. Says here you attempted to jump from the Golden Gate Bridge. Nasty way to go. Do know what happens to people when they die in that way?"

"I'm a doctor, I know fully well what happens," McCoy counters. "Valium and Lithium are old style medications with a multitude of side effects. There's other much more improved drugs in this day and age that would--"

"Dr. McCoy, are you a psychiatrist?"

As Spock listens to this exchange, he finds himself, immediately, illogically, actively disliking this man. The psychiatrist's extremely patronizing tone of voice reminds him of many held in high esteem on Vulcan. He would even go as far as to say, the man reminds him of his own father. (without the obvious emotions, that is) That slight knowing smile the man keeps on his face is blatantly disrespectful towards his patient- it is almost a sneer. McCoy normally would become feistier at this, but is appearing to have all of the fight receding in him. "I'm a..." McCoy falters and suddenly looks lost. "I'm a surgeon."

The psychiatrist consults his PADD for a few moments. "Says here, that you have a terminated license from the state of Georgia. Care to tell me the details on that?"

"No."

"Dr. McCoy. I can discharge you from the hospital immediately, if you answer the questions I have, satisfactorily."

"Well, thank you kindly, Nurse Rached...I mean...Dr. Rachett," McCoy drawls and Spock glances sharply over at him.

Dr. Rachett clears his throat. "Dr. McCoy, Is your partner aware that you committed patricide only two months previous?"

Spock speaks up: "I fail to see what this has to do with--"

"Are you aware, sir?"

"Yes, he did inform me."

Dr. Rachett consults his PADD once again. "It says here that Dr. Leonard McCoy administered to his own father a fatal dose of morphine, ending the man's life, when the life could have been saved. Dr. McCoy admitted in court that he had a difficult relationship with his father--"

Spock tightens his jaw as he interrupts: "I fail to understand the relevance of any difficulties in their relationship."

"Come now. You're an intelligent man, are you not, sir? Surely you will realize that Dr. McCoy abused his medical authority to conveniently murder his own father."

"What?" McCoy breathes out.

"That is not the truth, the man was ill. Infirm. Dying." Spock replies.

"My father begged me to release his pain," McCoy adds. "He was in agony. I couldn't bear to see him in that condition."

"Dying? Would he not have stayed alive on life support?"

"Yes..." McCoy says. "He would have, but--"

"Didn't you eventually discover a cure for your father's illness?"

"Dr. Rachett," Spock warns.

McCoy answers, deflated: "Yes, I did."

"When did you discover it?"

McCoy takes a deep breath. "Three weeks later."

"You found a cure, only three weeks later?"

McCoy nods. "You heard correctly."

"And that cure would have eradicated the disease. Your father would be here today had you not... terminated him."

"Dr. Rachett--" Spock says.

"Yes," Dr. McCoy answers. "Yes, he would be."

"We do not know that for certain," Spock protests.

Dr. Rachett turns to Spock. "Oh no? Were you present at the time of his father's death, sir?"

"I was not," he has to answer truthfully.

"Then you don't know exactly what happened."

"I believe him," Spock says.

"Implicitly?"

"Implicitly."

"Where did you study medicine, Dr. McCoy?"

"None of your fucking--"

"University of Mississippi, correct? Which version of the Hippocratic oath do they recite at graduation?"

"I can't remember," McCoy tells him.

"Are you lying to me?"

"Now, what do you think?"

"Don't you want to be discharged? Answer the question." McCoy does not answer. Dr. Rachett adds: "Which version, Dr. McCoy?"

McCoy smiles coldly. "The original version."

"May I hear it?"

"In Greek or Latin?" McCoy offers.

"Doctor--" Spock begins.

"English is fine."

"I swear by Apollo, the healer, Ascepius, Hygieia, and Panacea, and I take to witness all the gods, all the goddesses, to keep according to my ability and judgment, the following oath and agreement: to consider dear to me, as my parents who gave me this art, to live in common with him and if necessary, to share my goods with him, to look upon his children as my brothers, to teach them this art. I will prescribe regimens for the good of my patients according to my ability and my judgment and will never do harm to anyone." McCoy pauses, looking out into the middle distance.

"Doctor," Spock says. "It is obvious that he knows it, perfectly--"

"Please continue, Dr. McCoy."

With another smile, McCoy continues. "I will not administer a lethal drug to anyone if I am asked to, nor will I advise such a plan--"

"You may stop. And the ending?"

"If I keep this oath faithfully, may I enjoy my life and practice my art, respected by all men and in all times, but if I swerve from it or violate it, may the reverse be my lot."

"Thank you," Dr. Rachett replies. "You recited it dead father perfect." He smiles in surprise. "Oh, forgive me, I meant dead letter perfect."

"Dr. Rachett," Spock repeats.

The psychiatrist ignores him and asks McCoy: "Where's your mother?"

McCoy closes his eyes. "She's... uh, she's uh...back home."

"In Georgia."

"Uh huh."

"Close to your mother?"

McCoy swallows. "She won't speak to me."

"Since when?"

"Since my father's death."

"And you have an ex-wife."

"Yup."

"Why did you get a divorce?"

McCoy opens his eyes, barks out a laugh. "Lots of reasons."

Unfazed, Rachett continues: "And...it says here, you have a young daughter."

Suddenly McCoy jumps up, lunges forward. Spock finds himself lunging forward as well and holding him back from physically attacking Dr. Rachett. "You leave my baby out of this!" McCoy yells: "So help me God...if you don't leave her out of this--"

Dr. Rachett takes a couple of steps back, aghast. "Are you threatening me, Dr. McCoy?"

"You son of a bitch!"

"Dr. Rachett," Spock interrupts, still holding on to McCoy. "He has already been punished by the Georgia medical board, I fail to see what bringing this up--"

"Dr. McCoy has been remanded from the jail to my authority and I've recommended that tomorrow he be removed to a psych unit."

"That is preposterous," Spock insists. "You promised him that he would be discharged after your consult--"

"The discharge was conditional, only if he answered the questions satisfactorily. Quite the contrary, he has just demonstrated that he is a danger to himself and to others."

"I wish to see the attending physician," Spock insists.

"The attending agrees with me, sir. We'll see how Leonard does on the Lithium, alright?" The psychiatrist depresses a button on his PADD and heads out, singing a tune (under his breath): "The wheels on the bus go round and round...round and round and round...round and round..." The door shuts behind the doctor and it is silent for long moments.

McCoy appears to have emotionally shut down. Spock lets go of him and McCoy goes back to sit on the bed, slumping over and studying his own hands. "That was my...baby girl's favorite song," he manages.

"Dr. McCoy--"

"Don't call me Doctor, Spock."

"Dr. McCoy, you must listen to me--"

"Get out," McCoy whispers. "Get out of here, now, Spock."

"Dr. McCoy--"

"Get out! Get out!" McCoy suddenly is screaming: "Get out of here! Get out of here!"

The screams are loud enough for the two nurses to hear, aparently, and they run into the room. One barks out at Spock: "You'll have to leave. You are causing him serious distress." They hold up a hypo and it's pressed against McCoy's neck. At the hiss, McCoy immediately falls unconscious.

"I wish to see the attending physician," Spock tells the nurse.

"Out." She points into the corridor. "To the waiting area."  
__________________  
On to Chapter 8


	8. Fail Whale

It is cold (without Mother's hat) here in the bleak, pale walled hospital corridor (with the black scuff marks along the wall) where Spock has been forced to wait for the past three two point four three seven standard Earth hours.

The attending physician had not wished to listen to his reasonable argument regarding the appalling actions of the psychiatrist, (refusing to believe it) stating that his colleague is very well respected and he would not counter the man's recommendations.

A nurse from the earlier shift had taken pity upon him. She had brought out his bedside vigil chair for him in which to sit. While it was unecessary, as he is a Vulcan and can stand here as long as possible, he does appreciate the gesture.

Perhaps he should temporarily relocate to an area where he can get a signal and pick up his emails on his phone while he is waiting, as he is expecting a response from Starfleet. Doing so would help the time pass much quicker, but he refuses to leave this stretch of corridor outside of McCoy's room.

He suddenly hears a noise, a cry out. Is that McCoy? It sounds like McCoy. What are they doing to him? The nurses do not deign to volunteer any additional information as they come and go.

An older couple, holding hands, file past Spock in the corridor. They pause when they come close, stare at his ears as they smile warmly at him, then walk on. He watches them, considers them. He is moved by the sight of a couple of any age, holding hands. There is beauty in its simplicity, its sign of affection, so rare back home. The man looks exactly like McCoy might look, as an older man.

In fact, it IS McCoy, as an older man. Very tall, thin, with silvery hair. Bright blue eyes.

It cannot be, he is projecting. (He is tired, granted.) He looks down for exactly one second at his own hands, then looks over.

The couple has disappeared.

He feels a hand on his shoulder. A duty nurse stands before him. "You may go in now."

McCoy is lying there in the darkened room, eyes open, staring up at the ceiling. He is not in restraints, but perhaps he does not need to be. Spock seats himself on the bed, lays his hand on the man's exposed clavicle, feeling cold, clammy bare skin where the gown has slipped down the shoulder. The thoughts are clear, but McCoy seems--

"Hobgoblin." There is no exasperation, no insult with the usage. It is simply a croaked out greeting. The face is blank. Spock has never seen the man in this way. "Can't get rid of you."

"No."

Seeing McCoy in this helpless condition does even more to stoke the feelings of protectiveness within him. It encourages something he has been considering while waiting in the corridor. An illogical, passionate un-Surakian behavior from him. In the days of the barbarians, (one of which he is possibly becoming) one was needed to watch over the injured, the infirm. Protecting them against an attack from an enemy and in many cases, removing them from harm.

Springing into action, Spock stands up from the bed, walks over to the corner where his duffle bag rests. Without the physical support holding him up, McCoy simply falls back without protest.

Spock brings the bag over and opens it, riffling though the contents. Inside his bag, he spots the green/red soaked bloody shirt of McCoy's, which does even more to strenghten his resolve. "What are you doing?" is asked of him, weakly. He does not answer, and that is not satisfactory to the other. "Spock?" McCoy asks.

"Shhh."

"Spock, are you leaving?"

He pulls out a pair of trousers from the bag, they are not clean, it is of no consequence. And a striped shirt. And a pair of underwear.

"Spock?"

He does not answer but pulls the man to a sitting position, sliding the coverlet away, positions the pair of underwear and slides them up the smooth legs, then pulls them up the to rest on the slim hips. He must of caught the cotton garment on the man's genitals because McCoy lets out a sharp gasp and a soft: "oww."

"My apologies."

"What are you doing?" McCoy is still wondering. If it is not obvious by now.

"I am removing you from this place." He slides the pair of trousers up and successfully fastens them also, underneath the medical gown.

"How?"

"By secreting you out."

"No. You can't. It's hopeless."

"I refuse to allow you to be transferred to a psychiatric ward in the morning."

Bones shakes his head. "It doesn't matter..."

"It does matter." He tightens his grip on Bones. "I did not appreciate the consult from Dr. Rachett, the visit seemed more of a...psychological torture...as apposed to being beneficial of any kind."

"Maybe...maybe... something IS wrong with me...he was right. I'm a danger to myself and others...I did murder my father...dad and I never got along. I belong in prison...in a funny farm..."

" _Kaidiith_. I am getting you out of here."

"No! Foolhardy...you'll get arrested..." Bones is attempting to fight him, feebly trying to pull away. "You'll get arrested and you won't be able to enter Starfleet for sure--"

"Stay still." He starts to undo the ties in the back of the gown. He glances up and notes the telemetry over the bed illuminating Bones' blank, dull, suggestible expression, juxtaposed with the fight he is giving Spock. This is unsettling, more disconcerting than ever.

"No..." Bones is begging him. (begging him?) "Please don't...don't...please...I don't want anything to happen to you...we'll get caught...please...stop..."

Footsteps.

He pushes McCoy back down onto the bed, pulls the coverlet back over him, kicks his duffel bag into the corner and sits down on top of the bed, as if nothing is occurring.

A nurse enters the room with a tray and a cup, setting the tray onto the nightstand. "Good evening, Mr. McCoy."

"Good evening," he says to her, pleasantly.

"I'm here to give you your sleeping pill."

"Oh, good."

"Do you not agree that Doctor McCoy is on enough drugs as it is?" Spock enquires of the nurse.

"Oh, uh...I have my orders. I've got to make sure you're well rested for your transfer bright and early tomorrow morning, right Mr. McCoy?" she says.

"Right," McCoy replies.

"I heard shouting, is everything okay?"

"You wouldn't believe what was happening before you came in," he says faintly as he indicates Spock. "He was going to kidnap me...try to help me escape from here. But I don't want to do that, do I?" Spock jerks his head up, McCoy is smiling intently at the nurse.

"No, Mr. McCoy, you wouldn't be able to escape. Your medical bracelet would alert us as soon as you tried to walk out the front door."

McCoy giggles in response and Spock watches him with incredulity. "Oh. Because I want to be a good patient. Really, I do."

"I'm glad, Mr. McCoy. I'm glad you're willing to be good."

"I am," McCoy says. "I'm willing to be good." The nurse hands McCoy a paper cup holding two blue capsules, he pops them into his mouth and drinks the water she has provided for him. "Thank you."

"Good night, Mr. McCoy. See you in the morning."

"Good night, sweetheart." He lays his head back onto his pillow, and closes his eyes.

"I'm sorry, sir," the nurse says to Spock. "I can't have you sitting on the patient's bed."

"Of course." Spock stands up to his full height, faces her, suppressing a spike of anger. "I will simply...go away. That is what you wish. Is it not?"

There must be something in his eyes that frightens her, she sees the anger, (the murderous intent), because she stammers: "Well...It's not up to me." She quickly picks up the tray and walks to the door. "You won't be able to stay with him in the psych ward. It's a secure unit. He could be there for thirty days at least."

"I am well aware," he says, stiffly, controlled. She nods at him and walks out of the room. The doors snap shut behind her.

He lets his head fall forward for a moment.

He turns and moves to stand at the foot of McCoy's bed. He has failed to protect this man, but he will watch over him throughout the night. That is the least he can do for him, now.

Suddenly, Bones sits up and spits out the pills into his hand. "Hobgoblin."

"Yes?"

"Let's get the hell out of here."

* * *

McCoy is fully clothed, but barefoot and making silent footfalls, as they make their stealthy way down the darkened level five corridor. At the moment it is deserted.

They pause at a door marked 'supply room'. It appears to be unlocked, or at least does not need a code keyed into it. "In here," McCoy commands and they dive inside. McCoy pushes the button and it slides shut but he remains at the door for a moment fiddling with the controls. "We're going to have to hurry, it won't lock and these rooms get accessed regularly. Even in the middle of the night."

Spock glances around the room full of medical equipment, computers, various office supplies, white medical coats, surgical supplies, masks, and scrubs as McCoy grabs a pair of slim fitting scrub type trousers that might fit the both of them and throws them at him. "Quickly. Put this on." Spock complies, pulls off his own trousers and shirt, slides into the green pants, pulls on the v-necked shirt and notes that McCoy is doing exactly the same.

"Shit. Shit. Shoes, shoes, shoes. I can't find any shoes," McCoy is scrambling about, searching everywhere. "Where are they?" He does find a surgical cap, and picks up a white coat, throws those at Spock. "Here, this too." He's still scrambling about. "You got another pair of shoes in your bag?"

"I am afraid I do not."

"I thought you had another pair?"

"Not anymore." Spock opens up his duffle bag to make certain. "They do not appear to be here."

"Dammit." McCoy is still scrambling. "I have to wear shoes. They'll know." He pulls on a cap over his own hair, taking on, even more, the appearance of a surgeon.

Spock is already taking his shoes off to offer them to him, but McCoy stops him. "No, both of us. Shoes. You can't wear your damned socks with medical garb on."

"Shoe covers?"

"What over socks? That might fool them." He moves to a computer, turns it on. "Spock...I know you know how to make a fake I.D."

"I do, but I have never attempted--"

"Come on, man, what's wrong with you? Get to it. We don't have a lot of time." McCoy is still searching the room for various items they need as Spock begins keying in code. "Need to find a way to remove this bracelet. They have to have something in here to take it off with." He is still searching. "Damn!"

"What names should I use?" Spock enquires.

"Dr. Paul Simon, and Dr. Art Garfunkel. Or maybe not. Make up something. Just make sure we're both physicians."

"Acknowledged."

"And hurry the fuck up."

"I am."

Spock pauses what he is doing and tilts his head.

"Someone coming?" McCoy whispers.

"Affirmat--" He makes a surprised grunt as McCoy pushes him against the nearest wall and kneels down in front of him. "What are you--?"

"Shut up." McCoy hisses and hurriedly pulls down Spock's green scrubs a tiny bit down his waist, exposing enough of his genitals. And then...and then...there is the sensation...an indescribable sensation...as McCoy applies his mouth to the penis, cupping his hand around the base, pumping him with one cool hand. The glans disappears as McCoy is sucking him in deeper and deeper...

(oh eliath...)

(this is really happening.)

He is now extremely aroused (McCoy's mouth is warm and wet) a state of which it is logical to be at this moment. (why has he not attempted this before?)

(He should stop this...McCoy surely cannot be in his right mind...) Spock's eyes fall closed as he considers this, as parts of his body, operate independently of his control. The penis is designed to become erect, the breathing should increase, granted, with this action. Fascinating...

His hand lands on top of McCoy's head, he finds himself stroking the man's hair, as his head tilts back, hitting the wall.

(...oh...)

At that very moment, the door to the room slides open. "Whoops, sorry!" The man shuts the door and that brief intrusion is enough to send Spock over the edge.

McCoy pulls completely away, wipes his mouth with a slight sheepish smile. Spock stares down at him, at what has just occurred, blinks, unable to process--

McCoy stands up and starts to pull up Spock's trousers, till Spock ultimately does it himself and tries to find the words...as he attempts to slow his breathing.

McCoy is back over at the computer, checking on its progress, before he looks over. "Calm down," he whispers.

"I am calm... I am a Vulcan."

"You're shaking--"

There is a soft knock on the door and both of their heads snap up.

"Shit. Somebody must really need to get in here. Put your cap on." Spock complies, sliding the cap over his head, covering his ears and eyebrows, while McCoy goes over and opens the door.

It is David, the orderly who changed McCoy's sheets. "Hi," he says nonchalantly and walks right in. "You guy's done?"

"Maybe," McCoy quips. "Well, I guess you're gonna get a gold star tonight."

"What for?"

"Turning us in."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Dr. McCoy. All the staff fool around in here." McCoy catches right on to what David is intimating. "I see you're trying to make replacement I.D. tags. May I help?"

"Sure. We seem to have misplaced ours." McCoy steps over. David opens the locked drawer with his electronic key, pulls out two blank badges, and a device.

"I'll just take that off, while I'm at it." He uses the device to expertly remove McCoy's medical bracelet, it falls, clattering onto the floor in two pieces. "We keep this device locked up...just in case patients try to escape before we're ready to let 'em out of our clutches."

"Right," McCoy says, smiling.

"I altered the telemetry on your bed, by the way," David replies. "Now they think you're still there and won't come looking for you till morning."

"I turned it off," McCoy tells him.

"Yeah I know. You're lucky I got there in time." David scans the badges and hands them over and Spock and McCoy fasten them to their white coats. He looks down at McCoy. "You're barefoot, that won't work."

"I've been trying to find a spare set of shoes."

David immediately bends down and removes his own. "Here. I have another pair in my locker." McCoy puts them on, touches David on the arm in gratitude, Spock nods that he is alright and they rush over to the door.

"Doctor," David adds. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

He tosses a black medical bag at McCoy.

* * *

"They happen upon an elderly woman, sitting in a wheelchair in the corridor, moaning quietly. McCoy comes up to her and stops. "What's the matter with you?"

"Dialysis."

"Dialysis?!"

"Dr. McCoy," Spock whispers. "We must go."

McCoy ignores him. "What is this, the dark ages?" He digs in his black bag and hands the woman two pills. "Here. You take that, and if you have any problems, just call me." He pats her on the face, and they walk on.

* * *

In the elevator, McCoy presses the button to stop at the ground floor and turns to Spock, starts to speak then closes his mouth. He bounces his heels, and will not meet Spock's eyes. "Doctor," Spock begins. "I--"

"Look, uh, I'm really sorry about what...uh...happened." He shakes his head ruefully. "What a place to have your first sexual experience…in a hospital supply closet. I don't know...I was only going to pretend, but I had a feeling you'd be a lousy actor."

(ah, so it was all for appearances sake.) "The location is of no consequence."

"You weren't, uh, trying to save yourself, for uh, for marriage or anything like that. Were you?"

"I was not."

"If you were, please tell me. I know some societies will insist upon it, but I don't know about Vulcan...I mean...uh...you might still be okay... some people on Earth believe that even after oral sex you're still technically--"

"Leonard," he insists to the man who is rambling. "I do not mind."

Leonard flinches slightly, it is obvious he still does not appreciate being called by his first name.

"Will you be alright?" Spock wonders.

"As soon as we get out of here and get something to eat. I'm starving." McCoy opens up the medical bag, pulls out a small scanner. "Look what I got." He hovers the scanner over Spock's heart, then inspects the readout. "You'll live."

"Did you expect any less?"

"Nope." The lift stops and the doors open.

They walk past reception, the duty receptionist doesn't even look up from her iPADD Vogue magazine. "Good morning, Doctors," she offers.

"Morning," McCoy calls out to her grumpily.

They walk past the security sensor and begin their sojourn though the main doors. "Wait a moment," the security guard calls out.

"Shit," McCoy mutters under his breath. "Run?"

"Perhaps he will not recognize me." It is the same guard who had been stationed when Spock had come in days earlier with Jim Kirk.

The security guard comes up to him, and waves a sensor over their badges. "We're checking everybody. We had a patient disappear upstairs."

"Oh yeah," McCoy says. "Don't care, though. Too tired to even think right now."

"I hear that, Doc. Okay, you both check out with flying colors. You're free to go."

They walk out the front door and into freedom. It is rather beautiful outside. The sky is blue, the weather is warm. "I'm gonna kiss that David."

"You will not," Spock warns, and McCoy laughs, a true laugh, a melodic sound.

* * *

They walk a few blocks over to the beginnings of the Castro, which is directly adjacent to the Mission District and enter the first 'greasy spoon' they find (as McCoy terms it). It is not the cleanest establishment in the city, but apparently that does not matter to McCoy. They sit in a booth with red seats he sets his medical bag and white coat down next to him and he picks up the menu. "I'm so hungry I could eat a horse."

The waiter places two glasses of water on the table in front of them, then stands there, hands on hips, staring at McCoy in his green scrubs with mild interest. "You sound like you could ride one too, Doc."

"Do I?"

"Um hum. I hear that accent coming outta your mouth, Doc. Almost as sexy as your eyes. Where ya from gorgeous?"

Spock rolls his eyes as McCoy drawls: "Atlanta."

"Oooh. My last boyfriend was from Atlanta..."

"Mighty glad to hear it," McCoy replies.

"Need some time to check out that menu?"

"Nope."

"What can I getcha, sexy?"

McCoy points down. "Eggs, toast, coffee, hash browns."

"No grits? Biscuits and gravy?" McCoy shakes his head and the waiter turns to Spock. "What about you?"

"The vegetarian soup of the day and a diet coke."

The waiter writes it all down and saunters off.

"Diet coke?" McCoy scoffs. "Though you preferred Altair Water?"

"They do not have Altair water on the menu. I favor both."

"I can't believe an intelligent guy like you drinks diet coke. If you knew what was in that stuff you wouldn't drink it."

"I know what is in it. I still favor it."

"Nasty stuff, I you ask me."

"I did not ask you."

"You're not going be puking over a toilet from the diet coke later on, are you?"

"If so, I am confident that I have you around to assist me, Doctor."

McCoy smirks a little at that and watches as Spock pulls out his iPhone and checks his emails. "What's the status with Starfleet Academy?"

"I sent them an email. So far no response." A new email pops up. "Ah."

"What, 'ah'?"

"We must head to the Apple store, for the OS14. I have just received a notification."

"I don't have any credits, Spock." McCoy drums his fingers on the table. "You know that."

"It says here, that carrying a current iPhone is required by San Francisco law."

"Horseshit."

"There are vouchers for the unemployed."

"Yeah, I'm unemployed all right. Shove it in my face, why don't you." McCoy rubs his face. "I prefer not having a cellphone. Apple sucks anyway. I remember my old 'Droid phone. Now _that_ was a phone."

"'Droid?" Spock scoffs.

"I'm not getting another iphone. I like that nobody can find me. Nobody can track me."

Spock looks up from his email, studies McCoy. "Regardless of what your... opinion... may be of Apple, it is the only brand of phone available in the city."

"You just want to be able to track my whereabouts."

"Perhaps that is not so far off from the truth."

"I'm not gonna jump off any more bridges, okay, Spock?" McCoy looks away. "Is that what you're worried about?"

"Vulcans do not worry."

"The hell they don't."

After a long silence, Spock sneaks a glance over the at the waiter walking from table to table. "Interesting choice of uniform our waiter has on. He is clad in nothing but an apron."

McCoy follows Spock's gaze over his shoulder. "He does have a nice ass. Like a bubble butt."

Spock resumes his attention to his phone, opens up the ecofon app and types out a tweet. "Fascinating."

McCoy takes a sip of water. "Hmm?"

"When I was surreptitiously 'checking out your ass' in the hospital you accused me of being a pervert."

"Oh now, you admit to checking out my ass, huh?"

Spock looks up from Twitter to cast an unamused glare over at McCoy, he goes back to the tweet, attempts to send, but finds that he has merely achieved 'Fail Whale'. He mutters a curse in Vulcan and re-attempts it. 'Fail Whale' once again.

"What are you doing?"

"I am engaged in tweeting."

"Oh, that. I hate twitter. All that time I've been on it, and I've only managed to acquire three followers, and one of them is YOU."

"Fascinating." Spock grimaces.

"What do you mean 'fascinating'? How many followers do you have?"

"One hundred thousand."

"One hundred thousand? Are you sure about that?"

"In order to have followers, one must tweet."

"Lemme see what you're tweeting." Spock hands over the phone to McCoy who reads it aloud: "'freedom. pesky habit. prepare. prepare. the kids are alright. LLAP.' Spock your tweets make absolutely no sense." He hands the phone back to Spock in apparent disgust.

"They do to my followers."

"Hmph. What the hell does 'LLAP', mean, anyway?"

"'Live long and prosper'. I abbreviate the traditional Vulcan greeting on Twitter."

"Oh really? Maybe you should patent that phrase. Put it on a tee-shirt."

"Now, Dr. McCoy," he attempts once again to send the tweet, "that would be ridiculous."

"Why? Sell 'em on Etsy. You'd get rich."

"Sarcasm does not become you." Spock immediately attempts sending it again. "I am experiencing technical difficulties in sending my tweet."

McCoy looks up at the ceiling but Spock cannot perceive why. "Why don't you just take a goddamned photo and stick it up on twitpic for all your fans to drool at?"

"I intend to do so, but, rather infuriatingly so, twitpic is also currently inoperative." McCoy laughs at him maniacally, he simply raises an eyebrow in response. Suddenly, there is a 'ping' on the phone and he opens the new email. "Ah."

"Do you have to say 'ah' every time you open up an email? What is it?"

"I have a court date."

"For the bridge arrest?"

"Precisely."

McCoy sighs mightily. "When's the date?"

"Tomorrow at..." He scrolls down. "8am."

"That's fast."

"I must purchase something to wear. I have nothing suitable."

The food arrives and McCoy dives into it, practically inhaling a huge gulp of coffee. "Looks like you haven't eaten in three days, cowboy," the waiter remarks and walks off.

"Idiot," McCoy grumbles in his wake. Spock holds up his phone and snaps a pic of the waiter's bare backside, shows it to McCoy who is in midbite but barks out a laugh. "Save that."

"I have just posted it on twit pic."

"Good. Now quit tweeting and eat your food, Hobgoblin."

Spock glances at McCoy and decides it is indeed better to lay the phone down. He picks up his glass of diet coke and samples it.

"Why not use a straw?" McCoy wonders.

"Vulcans do not use straws."

"So, Vulcans tweet and drink diet coke, but they don't use straws?"

Spock sets the glass down. "Affirmative."

"Well, I hope you enjoy your aspartame, phosphoric acid, potassium benzoate, caramel color, potassium citrate, acesulfame--"

"I do."

"And I hope you don't miss the calcuim being sucked right out of your bones at this very moment."

"I have no comment on the matter."

* * *

After a considerable amount of searching, for both accommodation and a clothing store, they find a possible suitable boarding house located in a rather seedy part of the Castro district. The building appears to have once been rather grand, it is Victorian style, built of wood with iron railings, but is in a state of disrepair. Peeling wallpaper, chipping paint, wood. However, the advertised room rate displayed on the iphone app is enticing. They head to the severely bored, unimpressed elderly female working at the front desk.

"I would like to rent a room, please," Spock requests.

"For how long? We rent by the hour, night, week or month."

He raises an eyebrow. "Why would I wish to rent a room by the hour?"

McCoy hits Spock in the arm, and mutters: "Rent it for the week, Spock, that'll give you time to figure out what you're gonna do."

"I desire to rent a room for the week," Spock tells her.

"Yeah, I heard," she snaps. She pushes a PADD towards Spock. "Fill this out." He does so, quickly, then slides it back to her. "Drivers license, please."

Spock replies honestly: "I do not have one in my possession at the moment, it has recently been stolen."

"Well, I can't rent you a room without any I.D."

McCoy takes over from here and demands: "You'll rent a room by the hour to someone, but we need to have I.D?"

"That's right, genius." She rolls her eyes.

McCoy pulls off Spock's 'medical badge' slams it down onto the desk and slides it over to her. "Here you go, sweetheart."

"Doctor," Spock whispers. "That badge is fake."

"Spock," McCoy shushes him. "Spock..."

The woman is evidently not listening as she is studies it, turning it over and scowling. "This isn't a driver's license. I need to see a driver's license."

"That, my dear, is a hospital badge," McCoy protests as he points to it. "He is a doctor. It's got his goddamned photograph displayed. It says his name, clearly. What else could you possibly need?"

Spock cannot understand the reasoning behind the lie. "I am not really a doctor."

"Shut up, Spock."

The woman is still not listening to their exchange. "I need to see a driver's license. You can get a duplicate at the DMV--"

"I know where we can get a goddamned duplicate," McCoy grumbles.   
"Thank you very much, for nothin'."

"Live long and prosper," Spock calls to her, as they walk out the front door.

* * *

" _Now serving, A15_."

"What number are we, Spock?" McCoy leans his head back, cracks his neck in the hard backed chair.

He shows McCoy the plastic card. "Z151."

"Christ."

"I daresay we shall be sitting here for hours," Spock muses.

"Drama queen," McCoy says. Spock feels McCoy's hand brush against his own. He grabs on and holds it securely. McCoy glances over at him. "Not like we have anything else to do right now but sit here at the DMV."

"More sarcasm." He does not let go of McCoy and with his free hand he resumes tweeting on his iPhone.

"You starting to know me too well," McCoy whispers. "Don't know if I like that, much."

"You are exhausted."

"I'm fine."

Spock glances down at his iPhone. "Ah..."

"Email?"

"Starfleet Academy. They have received my email and will get back to me to let me know if I may re-apply for entry."

"What? You have to re-apply?!"

"Yes."

"That's bullshit. They're giving you the runaround. Don't they want a brilliant Vulcan on board one of their starships?"

"A brilliant Vulcan?"

"Well...you know..." McCoy blushes. "You're dad's an ambassador, can't he pull some strings?"

"Pull some strings, like a puppet?"

"No, Spock. Stop being a dumb ass...you know what I meant."

Spock gives McCoy a look and says shortly: "I will not ask him for help."

" _Now serving Z151._ "

"Hey," McCoy says happily. "That's us!"

They rise from their seats. There is no logic in their system, the next letter/number combination called out should be A16. Odd.

"Their numbers are out of sequence, Spock. They always do that."

"Illogical. We should still be waiting."

"Yeah, you tell 'em that, and I'll ram that iPhone up your ass."

Fascinating.

* * *

They head over to State Street where there is a men's suiting shop/tailor that appears to be reasonably priced. Inside, the proprietor picks out a selection of suits for Spock to try on. McCoy stands outside the dressing room, leaning against the wall. "Toss me your phone."

Spock throws it over to him with a raised eyebrow.

"I should take a nude shot of you and stick it up on twitpic," McCoy threatens as he looks down at the screen, and commences typing out a tweet. "but then again, I won't. You would probably double your followers."

"Triple."

"Don't flatter yourself and get in there."

At that, Spock rushes inside the dressing room, pulls the drapery shut. He virtually tears off his stripey shirt, shoes, and black trousers. This activity is infantile-- ridiculous, yet he finds himself quickly getting dressed because McCoy is waiting on him. He nearly is finished and out of the dressing room when he finds he has forgotten to fasten the tie. He gazes at his reflection in the mirror and realizes he does not know how. "Shit," he whispers.

The dressing room drapery opens and McCoy sticks his head in. "Did I just hear you just say 'shit'?"

"I do not know how to tie this."

McCoy reaches over, grabs both ends of the silk fabric. "Smart guy like you, doesn't know how to tie a tie?"

"I have never worn attire such as this."

McCoy ties it for him, cinches up the knot. "It's called a Windsor knot. Been around for centuries. Poor silkworms lost their lives to make this thing for you."

"Silkworms are killed to create this tie?"

"Yeah," McCoy says grimly, "they boil them."

"You are certain that this is not synthetic silk?"

McCoy turns the tag over. "The suit is synthetic, but the tie is real silk."

"I will not wear real silk."

McCoy begins to say something, closes his mouth, walks out of the dressing room, calling for the proprietor.

Spock waits for him, in the dressing room, for approximately 10 minutes.   
(McCoy currently has possession of his iphone, so one cannot check the chron for the exact time.)

Where is McCoy? (and why did he allow the man to take his phone? Although, if he disappears, he will be able to be tracked.) He waits… and waits a few moments longer.

Spock exits the dressing room to start a search for the man. (not in a panic)

(Ah...there he is)

In the hallway McCoy walks up with a silver tie. Spock disguises his relief by clearing his throat. "Here," McCoy says. "This one's synthetic. It'll look better on you anyway." McCoy undoes the other tie, pulls it off, their eyes meet and McCoy knots up the silver tie then spins Spock around to look at his reflection in the hallway mirror. "What do you think?"

"If one must appear in front of a judge, one must look good."

"That's true," McCoy agrees.

Spock realizes at that very moment, that they are dressed nearly identically. "You have changed clothing."

"Yeah, thought I'd try on a suit, just for hell of it. Like it?"

The suit is...extremely flattering...on McCoy. The trousers are tight. He is wearing a light blue tie which accentuates the blue in his eyes. The white shirt is tucked in, the navy blue jacket is cinched closely on the waist. Along with the scruff on his face, the light brown hair is slightly disheveled. McCoy is almost...beautiful...if one was so inclined to say so. "Yes," is all Spock can manage. "You appear...adequately attired."

McCoy seems disappointed at that. "Oh."

"You two getting married?" the proprietor asks.

"Never," McCoy replies. He holds up the phone in front of him and pulls Spock tightly to him by the waist. "Smile, Hobgoblin." Neither one of them actually does smile, however, as McCoy snaps the pic.

"You make a very attractive couple," the proprietor says. "I'll be upstairs at the register if you need me."

As soon as the man leaves the vicinity, Spock re-enters the dressing cubicle.

McCoy follows him in, comes up to stand inches away from him. "You two make a very attractive couple," he repeats with the now patented sarcasm, pulls Spock to him by the tie, plants a kiss onto his mouth.

Then another one.

Then another, deeper one.

Spock finds that his physiological responses are quite...

McCoy pulls his mouth away, but stays very, very close. "Thought you could control that." He grinds his pelvis into Spock's.

"I can."

"The hell you can," McCoy drawls. Spock pulls McCoy to him this time, kisses him again. He relaxes his mouth, touches McCoy's tongue with his own before the man yanks his mouth away. "Ain't yer momma ever told you never to fool around in dressing rooms?"

"I don't believe so. Though had she, I daresay, I would not have obeyed."

"You rebel, you."

"Hmmm, indeed."

McCoy smiles for a moment, then holds a finger to his lips. He sinks onto the carpeting, to his knees, and with a mischievous grin, pulls down Spock's zipper.  
______________________  
On to Chapter 9


	9. Home Is Where the Soup Is

_San Francisco municipal court--precisely 10:00 am. Pacific time._

He sits on a wooden bench awaiting his turn for his trial amongst all of the others gathered in this dingy walled, dirty, malodorous corridor. (Undoubtedly his stay in San Francisco has involved a certain amount of waiting in suspect hallways.) His appointment had supposedly been for precisely 8am. Evidently a great many others had also received this identical date and time for their court appearances as well, as great many waited here with him, staring at him, in all style of formality of attire. There are not many from other planets amongst the Humans, certainly not another Vulcan to be seen. He ignores the curious stares and closes his eyes for a brief, light meditation.

He had left McCoy asleep in bed early that morning. 'Their bed', he muses, though it feels odd to think of it as theirs, but it is, is it not? He had woken up exactly 34 seconds before his alarm, quietly rising and shutting it off as not to disturb the other.

He had stopped himself from indulging in an odd temptation to touch McCoy's sleep tousled, wavy hair, appearing darker in the morning light, nor did he trace a finger down the cheek (growing more bearded by the day). Nor did he trace the sleep lines etched into the man's smooth, slender back, nor would he grant himself a kiss onto the man's head. He had performed his ablutions quickly before leaving as silently as possible, wanting to be certain he had departed early enough to make it in time to the courthouse downtown.

San Francisco's quick, efficient, but very crowded mode of public transport, known as 'MUNI', was comprised of a monorail above the city, a series of ground hover buses, some older streetcars and an underground. Traveling on MUNI has proven to be an exercise in patience and restraint. Public transport is an activity he had rarely participated in on Vulcan, having owned his own flitter. (Being the son of an Ambassador affords such luxury.) Everywhere was crowded: The streets, the station, the buses, the trains.

He was moved to tweet: 'chaotic streets. full of disconnection. marvel at our potential. alarmed by our collective tendency toward unconsciousness. build a bridge. LLAP'

Other morning rush hour commuters and some tourists were pressed up against him in a tightly packed carriage, neither he or any others saying a word, nor meeting the other's eyes. He, of course, could read the bulk of their feelings loud and clear-- uncomfortable sensations from such close proximity.

Exiting at Civic Center station, he found that he had arrived at the courthouse with approximately one standard hour and ten point two minutes to spare. He spent that time at the coffee house across the street, nursing an herbal tea.

He and McCoy had had a very restful night. Their bed was comfortable and McCoy's exhaustion, as was expected, was palatable. Despite the Human's protestations to the contrary, McCoy was out nearly before his head had hit the pillow. So far, McCoy had shown no evidence of any lasting emotional trauma due to his hospital stay, but granted it was early days...and Spock was not a psychiatrist...

They had managed to find a much nicer lodging house run by another older woman, (a much friendlier version than the last) a Mrs. C. Meagher. The lodging house, located near 18th and Castro Streets, had a sign on the outside proclaiming itself: 'The Bradbury Apartments'. McCoy had said one of his favorite authors was Ray Bradbury, so the place was calling out to them. Whatever that meant.

Their top floor 'apartment' was known as an efficiency, which was a combined single bedroom/living quarters, equipped with an ensuite bathroom and a small kitchen. The main room featured a 'queen sized bed', a fireplace and a flat screened television. McCoy had been pleased at the kitchen but Spock had to confess he did not know how to cook. Mother always performed those household tasks. Failing that, the duties fell to the kitchen Major Domo, (the _'atel'ame'_ , as one would say on Vulcan) or another kitchen servant when Mother was off-planet.

McCoy had been highly amused by a bowl provided on the nightstand filled with condoms and single-use packets of lube. He had actually spent three point seven two minutes chuckling about the contents of said bowl. Such a thing on Vulcan would be deemed an egregious violation of privacy, but at any rate, it was gratifying to see McCoy currently in so pleasant a mood.

" _Case number 23455_."

That is his case number. Time now to plead as logically and rationally as he has been rehearsing in his head all morning. As soon as the judge hears his defense, the case will immediately be dismissed, he is confident of that.

* * *

Were he human, he would admit to being profoundly...disgusted by the California justice system.

He had received an extraordinarily large fine. Staggering--he might say, were he Human. He had begun his protest to the judge regarding the amount but she had hit her gravel. He was notified by the very large bailiff that his turn was ended. There was simply nothing else he could do but pay up or face being sent to the city lockup once again.

Reporting to the payment office as commanded and begrudgingly handing over his card to be debited accordingly, he never in his life would fathom that his hard won earnings from driving a semi truck coast to coast would eventually be nearly wiped out to pay a minor citation fine to the City of San Francisco, such an extortionate rate indeed.

* * *

Departing MUNI at Castro Station, he makes the short walk down to 18th Street to the 'Bradbury Apartments'. He pauses to snap a pic of a squirrel outside his building. The animal is in a decidedly unusual position, sprawled out onto its abdomen and thoracic region. He raises an eyebrow at the iPhone, then at the live squirrel, wonders if in fact the squirrel is in serious distress. The animal is now up on its feet, swishing its fluffy tail, creeping towards him, hungrily.

He quickly enters the building, walks through the main door, acknowledges Mrs. Meagher then climbs the four flights of stairs to his and McCoy's abode.

He can detect the faint smells of food preparation. Ah, perhaps a wife in one of these other apartment units is engaged in cooking duties for her family. How he wishes Mother was here to prepare a meal, she has always been a very talented cook. Perhaps he and McCoy might have an early dinner in one of the various 'dives' (as McCoy deems them to be) located in the Castro district.

He slips his key into the slot and opens the door.

Fascinating. The odor of food being prepared is very strong in here.

McCoy is obviously NOT in bed, resting.

From the kitchen there is a sound of clattering pots and pans. Old fashioned music is also audible which sounds very much like it is 'Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young'. A voice is singing along to the music: McCoy's.

Spock comes over to stand in the doorway of the kitchen, hesitates before he enters, setting his trilby onto the table which has a place setting for two. He studies this tableau for a moment and then turns his attention to the man obviously quite engaged in proceedings involving the stove. He clears his throat.

McCoy spins around, surprised, a large, wooden stirring spoon clutched tightly in his hand. "Oh! Hi, Hobgoblin! I didn't hear you come in!"

"Evidently." He directs his gaze towards the iPod.

McCoy reaches over and waves the loud music off. "Sorry. That better?"

Spock regards his hat, then his hands, says nothing.

"Sit down, Hobgoblin. Loosen that damned tie," McCoy commands. Spock sits, but does not loosen his tie.

A long pause ensues.

"So, uh, how was your day in court?" McCoy asks, breaking the silence conversationally as he lightly lays his hand on Spock's shoulder. After dealing with the touch of fellow MUNI passengers and their bombardment of emotions, Spock finds himself resisting the contact. McCoy appears to get the message and quickly removes his hand. Spock does not answer the posed query so McCoy goes on, in spite of him, rather excitedly: "I sure hope you're hungry. I'm fixin' vegetable soup and some bread. I baked the bread myself from scratch. Hope you like it. And I even got you some Diet Coke, entirely against your Doctor's orders...Me," he says entirely unnecessarily, "but hey... I'm not employed as a doctor right now... so...you can live a little..." McCoy laughs slightly, but it sounds awkward. "So...how 'bout that, huh?"

Ah, he had thought he could smell freshly baking bread when he was traversing the flights of stairs. (The scent of the soup and the fresh bread does not make his mouth water and the idea of sipping a glass of Diet Coke does not sound at all appealing. Not at all.) He notices his duffle bag on the kitchen floor, opened and nearly empty. "Where are my clothes?"

"Yeah, uh well, you don't have anything clean for us to wear and well, uh...since we're both sharing 'em, and I was getting sick of wearing scrubs and they were getting a little ripe..." McCoy breaks off his explanation with a small giggle.

"You did the laundry," Spock discerns. "Why, thank you, Doctor."

"I have to head down to the basement in about twenty minutes and fetch it out of the dryer. Bet you'll be glad to get out of that suit." McCoy now is busying himself with the task of slicing a large oblong shaped fruit that possesses a hard green shell on the outside and soft red innards with a huge butcher style knife. Spock is not quite certain what the fruit is called, nor has he seen it before, till the man offers him a piece: "Have some watermelon for Christ's sake, stop sitting there like a bump on a log." Spock shakes his head to decline the fruit, McCoy shrugs and takes a huge bite of it himself, spitting out the seeds into his hand. "You ever seen a watermelon before?"

"Negative." He continues his attention over to the large covered metal pot on the stove. Steam streams out of a vent from the lid. Again, it might smell delectable...however-- "How did you acquire all of this food?"

McCoy takes another bite of watermelon and spits out another seed. "I stole it."

Spock cannot help but visibly startle at that, he opens his mouth to begin a long lecture... but McCoy barks out a laugh, obviously pleased he got a reaction. "I didn't steal anything. Okay? I woke up, went over this morning across the street to the 'jobcorp' agency. Now that I have a home address I can use, I checked out some work leads, there was nothing, so then I picked up some unemployment credits." McCoy holds up a plastic card and triumphantly waves it in front of Spock's face. "No sense in you always having to pay my way. Then, I was hungry and I figured you'd be too when you came home so I went to the grocery store."

Apparently this lodging in which they are staying is considered by McCoy to be their 'home'. Fascinating. He mulls it over. Home. Perhaps he should tweet some thoughts about it... "What time did you awaken?" he eventually asks of McCoy.

"After you left, I couldn't sleep anymore." McCoy pulls out two bowls, places plates underneath them, picks up a metal soup ladle and starts portioning out the soup. "Needed something to occupy me."

"Where did you acquire these kitchen utensils and serving-ware?" Spock asks tightly.

"This kitchen is all furnished. It's got everything we need. As long as we don't destroy it, I guess. Home sweet home."

Home. Spock nods solemnly, again, says nothing.

"Spock?" It is now evident in the way McCoy's demeanor has fallen, the smile has faded, he has picked up on something being off. "Something the matter?"

Spock hesitates. He should be more appreciative of what McCoy is doing, however the preparation of food, in this way, in this 'home-like' setting, (home) cannot be allowed. "You are not my mate," he declares.

"Yeah." McCoy gives him an odd look. "I know that."

"You are also not my mother nor are you an employed servant. Therefore, I cannot allow you to wait on me in this manner."

"In what manner?"

"Preparing food for me."

"For US," McCoy corrects, then sits the soup ladle down very deliberately."Kindly tell me, what the hell are you on about?"

"On Vulcan, food preparation at home and the serving of it to others is performed by a servant, spouse or parent."

"So?"

"Since you do not fit the criteria, you are violating a Vulcan taboo."

"A Vulcan taboo?" McCoy immediately breaks into laughter. "Now you're being--"

He stands. "Doctor, I would appreciate it if you did not mock me."

McCoy stops his laughing to gape at him. "Are you serious?"

"I am."

"Now, that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. We're on Earth and this is the 23rd century! And neither one of us has a mommy or wifey to wait on us right now, nor should we expect 'em to in this day and age!"

"Nevertheless, I am a Vulcan."

"So you're not going to eat it?"

"Correct."

"What? I can't believe it! Shoulda told me that before I slaved away at this stove..." McCoy is now moving various objects around the kitchen, slamming cupboard doors shut (now entirely too emotional), he hisses: "So...you'll let me suck you off, but I'm not allowed to cook for you?"

"Please do not be vulgar. A sexual act and food preparation are two entirely different things."

"The hell they are!"

"And you are the one who instigated the sexual acts. Not I."

"Fine. Won't being doing it again, then. That make you happy?" McCoy slams a lid down onto the counter. "We can't afford a Goddamned servant, much less anything! Just how in the hell are we supposed to eat then, huh? You tell me that!"

"There are restaurants in the vicinity," Spock points out.

McCoy is now seething. "Oh, so that's okay, huh? Oh, waiters and cooks, they fall into the servant category, I guess. You want to blow all your credits on restaurant food? That's what you want to do, huh? Eat that shit every day, instead of some good old fashioned home cooking?"

McCoy then stalks out of the kitchen, still grumbling to himself regarding the ridiculousness of which he deems this.

Spock does wish to make the man understand. He finds himself following McCoy to the bathroom, he stands at the doorway, because the door is of course still open as the Human lifts the lid on the toilet to commence urinating. (Evidently privacy while one takes care of intimate functions and ablutions regarding one's person in the bathroom is unnecessary when one is at 'home'.)

"Get out of here. Quit watching me, pervert!" McCoy snarls at him.

"I have seen you perform this action many a time."

"Yeah well, not anymore. You're not my spouse so you can't come in," McCoy snaps.

(Ah...the infantile reaction.) "If you do not wish me to enter the bathroom, then shut the door."

"Fine." McCoy yanks his scrubs back up, marches over to the door, slams it in Spock's face.

"You shall annoy our neighbors," Spock says to the closed door.

"I don't give a fuck!"

Now there is only the sound of urinating, so to grant McCoy some privacy at this time, he makes his way, patiently, to the bedroom cum living area, sits down at the small desk and pulls his iPhone off his hip, checks his emails.

The bathroom door is open again and McCoy is now shouting at him, as the water is running: "You know what? You are being contradictory, do you understand me, you greed blooded pain in the ass? You make absolutely no sense and it's driving me crazy! And I still haven't seen you pee. I'm beginning to think you're a robot or something!"

Spock is immersed in his phone, does not respond.

McCoy continues his rant: "And you know what else? I don't care... Don't even eat the damned soup!"

Odd. There is still no response from Starfleet academy. He shall phone them, to discover what the delay might be.

McCoy appears in front of him, wiping his hands on his scrubs. "Will you listen to me?"

"I am."

"What did I just say?"

"You instructed me not to eat the food, Dr. McCoy." McCoy, in a fit of pique, plucks the iPhone out of his hand. "Return my phone." McCoy, to be expected, does not. "Return it, please.

"Not until you listen to me. I cooked for you...Spock look at me. I cooked for you... because I'm concerned you're not eating enough. You're too thin. I worry about your health. I--"

"I am aware. You obsess over my wellbeing."

McCoy finally slams the iPhone onto the table. "Not anymore."

"Doctor, please have more respect for one's possessions."

"Sure." McCoy turns on his heel, opens up the front door. "I'll just go fold the laundry. Or is THAT not allowed?"

"That is entirely acceptable." Spock picks up the mistreated iPhone.

"Now, how is that different?"

"Pardon?"

"How is...doing the laundry different, than cooking for you? They're both household tasks. Why is me doing the laundry okay?" McCoy is still talking when he should have been leaving and will the man go or be silent so that he may phone Starfleet Academy? McCoy slams a hand onto the nearest wooden object that will presumably make the loudest noise. "Spock."

His head snaps up. "I am listening to you, Doctor, but please be brief."

"I can't even have a conversation with you without you tweeting all the damned time!" McCoy snaps. "Stupid, obstinate, contradictory, Diet Coke drinking, tweeting Vulcans!" The door slams hard behind the man leaving Spock in blissful silence.

Finally.

* * *

 _One standard hour later..._

He should have been able to phone Starfleet in relative peace. Instead, he had merely placed his iPhone onto his hip. He will do so later this afternoon. For now he is too concerned about Bones' whereabouts.

(and he can still smell the soup.)

It is too quiet. (where is he?) Perhaps, upon further consideration, he had been a little too abrupt with the man, who was only attempting to do him a favor. He should not have reacted in such a...childish, selfish, petty manner. (Perhaps, he misses his mother.) Perhaps more of an indication he is becoming a barbarian. When the Human returns, he shall apologize for his actions.

He checks his iPhone. The time has now gone past one hour and ten point three two minutes.

He slowly heads into the kitchen, pulls out the chair, drops down at the table still set for two. He takes a bite of a slice of bread that McCoy had baked. It is quite good. Very good. And the soup, although now cooled, is also...delicious. And the Diet Coke...with a lemon. Exactly how he prefers it.

After he finishes the soup, he rinses out the bowl, puts the plate and bowl into the sink. He touches the pot of soup on the stove. It is still too warm to place into the refrigerator. He instead walks into the main room. "TV on," he commands. The television immediately responds.

There nothing worth watching as he flips through the various channels, however on 5 San Francisco News, there is now a bulletin:

"...escaped from Mercy hospital's protective custody in the early hours of yesterday morning. If you have any information as to the whereabouts of this man please call the San Francisco police department...there is a warrant for his arrest."

An image of Leonard McCoy flashes onto the screen.

He utters a curse and heads immediately out the door, down the five flights of stairs and into the ground floor laundry room.

McCoy is not in the laundry room.

He is a fool. McCoy has most likely fled this boarding house by now. He could not have gotten far but he will surely now be recognized as soon as he hits the streets. Spock cannot believe the he has virtually thrown the Human out to the proverbial Earth "wolves". He must search for him, before it is too late. (Damn his obstinacy). Spock reaches the front door--

"Looking for somebody?" It is Mrs. Meagher. Spock turns around. "Your boyfriend's in here."

"My boyfriend..." he whispers.

Mrs. Meagher beckons him back to her office. Bones is sitting at a table and consuming something on a delicate China plate which appears to be blueberry pie, (the blueberries are huge) there is a scoop of Vanilla ice cream on top, melting onto the warm crust. This is accompanied by a cup of coffee served in an equally delicate China cup on a saucer.

McCoy, of course, is glaring at him.

"Nice suit," Mrs. Meagher says.

"Thank you," Spock replies politely.

"Would you like a piece of pie, Spock?" Mrs. Meagher offers.

"No, sorry, he can't," McCoy cuts in before Spock is able to respond . "Taboo."

"Oooh!" Mrs. Meagher exclaims. "I didn't know that."

"Yeah, the restriction dates all the way to Surak," McCoy replies. "Right Spock?"

He gives McCoy a look. Blueberries are his favorite. "Right."

"Too bad," McCoy says and takes a huge forkful of pie, the ice cream up along with it, shoving the entirety into his mouth. "Hmmm, just like Momma used to make. 'Cept with peaches..."

"A word, Dr. McCoy." Spock motions towards the laundry room.

"Dr. McCoy?" Mrs. Meagher wonders out loud. "You have to call your boyfriend by his title?"

"Yep," McCoy replies. "We're formal like that." He takes a long sip of coffee, still scowling at Spock.

"I wish to speak with you in the laundry room," Spock finds himself hissing through clenched teeth.

"I'm not done with my pie, Spock."

" _Bones_." He hopes the look in his eyes convices the man.

"Fine." McCoy stands up, rather reluctantly. "Excuse me, Mrs. Meagher, and thanks for the pie." She smiles back at him, nodding.

"What's the matter?" McCoy asks with more patented sarcasm as soon as they enter the laundry room. "Can't take your own clothes upstairs?"

Spock grabs onto McCoy's arm and spins him around, a little harder than he intended to (and McCoy making a slight grunt at the shock). "You are a wanted man."

"Are you attempting to say, in that Vulcan way of yours, that you're sorry?"

"Your image has been broadcast on television."

"Hmph," McCoy scoffs. "Must be a slow news day."

"The authorities seem rather intent on apprehending you."

"Bench warrant?" Spock nods. "I was really on TV? You want my autograph?" McCoy,  
unbelievably, laughs.

Spock holds onto the man's arm, much tighter. "I fail to see the humor in this situation."

"You fail to see the humor in anything. Doesn't mean it's not funny. And oww...let go."

"You fail to understand." Still grasping McCoy, he shakes the arm a little. "You are in serious trouble."

"And you're a drama queen. Why don't you go somewhere and tweet about it?"

He tightens his grip even further. "Doctor," he warns.

"Spock, listen, uh, it's just sensationalized TV bullshit, most likely instigated by that quack, Dr. Rachett."

At the mention of that psychiatrist's name, Spock looks away.

"Hey," McCoy puts a hand on him. "I'm fine, you hear? As long as we keep arguing like this...I know everything's okay."

Spock raises an incredulous eyebrow at him.

"Besides, there's too many people in the city," McCoy continues. "The cops'll never find me."

"That is incorrect and you know it. You filed for unemployment this morning. You can be traced to this address." He gives McCoy a wry glance. "Being as you knew you would have a warrant issued against you, it is perhaps not the most intelligent thing you have done."

"Listen, asshole, we needed the money! You're nearly broke, aren't you."

"It is in our best interests to depart San Francisco, immediately."

McCoy manages to pull out of Spock's grasp and rubs his own arm. "I'm the one who's leaving. I've decided I'm going back to Georgia."

"How? You would immediately be arrested."

"No...I'll find a way back."

"I will drive back to Georgia and conceal you."

"Are you out of your Vulcan mind? You need to stay right here in town to wait for Starfleet to beckon."

"I will not allow harm to come to you. If I must forego the opportunity to enter, I will. We..." He rations it out for a moment. "We will travel to Vulcan. I can get a passport for you under diplomatic immunity."

"Diplomatic immunity? What... get Daddy involved?"

Spock hesitates. "Yes." (Father would help, albeit reluctantly...and he would never hear the end of it. But perhaps some things are unavoidable.)

"Then what...are we just gonna get married and set up home together on Vulcan?" McCoy furiously shakes his head. "No way."

McCoy is of course absolutely correct, as emotional as the man is. As to why he even thought up such a plan is beyond him, however...

McCoy takes the opportunity to attempt an exit and Spock grabs onto his arm once again to deny him egress. At that very instant, Spock's iPhone rings from his waist.

"Nice ringtone," McCoy quips, rolling his eyes at the Rachmaninoff.

Spock holds it up, notes the number. It is Mrs. Meagher calling from her office just ten feet away. He answers it. "Hello?"

" _Uh... Hi there...uh... Spock_?"

"Yes?"

" _It's Mrs. Meagher. I was...uh...just watching the news..._ "

"Of course." His hand slides off of McCoy's arm.

" _I see Leonard's in some trouble._ "

"Yes...I do apologize. We shall be moving out immediately."

" _Under no circumstances are you going to do that._ "

"Pardon?"

" _Listen, you two are nice boys. Good boys. I trust my intuition. And I'm not about to let a little bit of crap on the news or some issue with the cops, hurt you two. So, Leonard's safe here. We'll need to disguise him a little bit from the average passer-by but he'll be okay. Any cops stoppin' by, I'll take care of 'em."_ She sounds rather... ominous, and extremely genuine.

Nevertheless, Spock raises a skeptical eyebrow into the phone. "You would do that for us?"

" _Well... I need the rent, too._ "

He allows himself a faint smile. "Thank you, Mrs. Meagher. I...we appreciate that."

He ends the call, places the phone back at his waist and turns to McCoy, bemused. "Apparently you have a safe haven here at the Bradbury Apartments."

"I could HEAR her talking." McCoy grins as he opens up the dryer, feels the clothes to ascertain if they are in fact dry, aparently they are still damp so he closes the dryer, slides his debit card into the slot and quickly removes it. The LED flashes '10 min' and the dryer resumes. "Her office is right over there." McCoy is now in subdued hysterics. "Couldn't she just walk the ten feet to talk to us?"

Spock grabs McCoy's arm again, spins him around, pushes him against the warm, engaged dryer which nips the man's silly laughter in the bud. "Perhaps she was concerned that you and I would be engaged in...what is the human custom? Ah yes...make-up sex."

"In the laundry room?" McCoy's demeanor changes to a status of being rather coy. "Don't you think that's a little..." Spock pushes his pelvis into him and Bones' eyes flutter closed, (Spock can feel the vibration of the dryer through McCoy.) "Do we trust her?" Bones manages. "What if..." He swallows and Spock watches the movement of the man's Adam's apple. (known as a 'ple'tie' on Vulcan) "Spock...What if...she decides to turn me in?"

"I trust her. We must. It is either stay here or attempt to find a new place to live and risk you being caught or us separating. What would you prefer?"

"I prefer to...stay here...with you… till you get into Starfleet at least. That's all I want, okay?"

"Then what will you do?"

"Talk about it later. Not when your hands are on me," Bones whispers.

Taking that as his cue, Spock reaches over, splayes his hand on the other's face. Bones' scruff is soft under his fingers. Bones leans forward, pushing their mouths together. Bones tastes of blueberries. Ah that reminds him...

"Leonard."

"Yeah?"

"The meal you prepared...I enjoyed it a great deal." He looks down, then up again into the doctor's eyes.

"You broke down and ate it?"

He nods.

"And the universe didn't self destruct? How'bout that?"

Now he rolls his eyes. His hand shifts to the back of McCoy's neck and he kisses him again. The slim hips grind against him. "Fascinating," he notes once they part for air. "I note you are currently having no difficulty sustaining an--"

"Not at all..." McCoy murmurs into Spock's neck. "Crazy meds have cycled out of my system..."

Spock reaches down and slides a finger into the green waistband. "Fortuitous." Bones is, of course, wearing no underwear. (All, but the pair Spock is wearing, are currently in the dryer.) He tugs and pulls the waistband down just enough to expose the light brown pubic hair and the light pink genitals.

He has seen McCoy's flaccid penis plenty of times by this point, but never has actually witnessed the naked organ erect. However, he has previously viewed enough clothing tented in the mornings since they have made their acquaintence, noted what Human males are afflicted with (something described as 'morning wood'). McCoy has previously performed felatio on him, but he has never recripocated, certainly he has never touched any other naked penis besides his own in this condition.

He explores McCoy's engorged organ, sliding a finger along the shaft. It is very smooth, adequately sized, featuring a foreskin that alternately retracts and exposes the head as he gently strokes. By the hooded look in McCoy's eyes, he can ascertain if he is performing the action properly--

"Stop analysing it so much...I'm not a medical specimine... dammit..." Spock shuts the man up by increasing his stroke. McCoy's breath is heavy as he jerks slightly with the sensations. "We really should...take this upstairs...someone can come in here..."

"Shhh..." Spock kneels down then briefly flicks a glance upward, sees McCoy licking his lips watching Spock take him into his mouth.

* * *

" _...yes...yes...more...harder...oh...yes..._ "

Spock opens his eyes, lays there in bed for a moment, blinks in the darkness, then sits up on his elbows.

McCoy, curled up next to him, on his side, awakens at Spock's movement. He flips over onto his back, listens to the voices as he pushes the coverlet down to his waist.

" _oh...God...yes...harder harder..._ "

"What the hell?" McCoy mutters.

Someone next door is actively, noisily engaged in a sexual act. These apartments require soundproofing.

" _Ohh...YES!...Yes!_ "

McCoy twists his body to pick up the LED chrono on the nightstand, groans at the time, slamming it back down. "Six o'clock in the mornin'. Damn animals."

They listen to the onslaught for a few more moments. "Are all Humans this loud?"

"Depends." McCoy snorts. "Sounds like someone's getting it in the ass good and proper. I'm sure they'll be done in a couple minutes."

However, the sounds do not abate, they continue on for nearly forty five point three two minutes. Bones is ammused at first then growing increasingly annoyed. "Jesus Christ. You know...There might be _children_ in here!" he shouts.

"There are not," Spock corrects.

McCoy grabs Spock's pillow and pulls it over his head around his ears. Spock immediately reclaims his pillow so then McCoy raises his hand as to smack it against the wall.

Spock catches onto the hand and with a smooth movement pulls McCoy over on top of him. He begins by touching McCoy's forehead, then runs a hand down the bearded face, caresses the lips, cups the man's neck, runs a hand down the man's smooth skin to the small of the back, then rests the hand on the curve of the buttocks.

He and McCoy had fallen asleep nude in bed together, but that was mostly to save on the use of clean laundry which is at a premium, rather than any sexual contact they might have done or intended to do in bed, which up to now has been entirely oral copulation.

"Don't tell me those idiots next door are turning you on?" The doctor is of course just as aroused as he and does not appear to mind... so Spock continues his exploratory touching. Then, being the more experienced of this particular coupling, Bones becomes the leader and Spock can merely hang on for the ride, as it were. (to the soundtrack of the antics next door)

There is a hand between them, stroking their organs together. Now Spock finds himself flipped over onto his stomach, his hips pulled back so that he creeps up onto all fours and there is Bones' slick tongue running from the back of his neck (which creates an unbelievable shutter from him) making a wet trail down his back, into the cleft of his buttocks, now it is circling his anus and now finally entering said orifice. " _This_ is rimming," McCoy whispers.

McCoy applies his tongue again and Spock can barely respond: "Pardon?"

"What I'm doing to you." McCoy makes a pleased sound, heady and illicit. "I'm rimming you. You didn't know what it was before. Feel good?"

"It is..." (ohhh) "It is...interesting."

Now there is a finger exploring him, entering him, touching him there and a sharp gasp is released from his own mouth and Bones makes another pleased murmur regarding Vulcans possessing a prostate gland.

Spock stiffens at this and not with arousal. McCoy already knows why and slithers his body up alongside and nudges Spock to roll over onto his back. Now McCoy is straddling him, kissing him deeply (with the same tongue that was in his anus he cannot help but think but he does not care at this point), McCoy is running a finger along the tips of his ears, now sucking on them, a noted Vulcan erogenous zone. (and who is making that noise? him?) His left hand rests on McCoy's hip and the right is tangled in McCoy's hair...

Apparently they are going to move forward, beyond the oral copulation. He can only wonder if he is ready for this. They can never go back.

He is tense to be sure. Bones is taking his time, will be careful, he certainly knows what he is doing. The...the...fear...of the unknown is being slowly, wonderfully soothed away...everything will be fine...

As soon is he is relaxed, somewhat, Bones is reaching over, fishing out by touch, for a few packets of the lube in the bowl next to the bed. Yes, yes...this is good... to err on the side of caution, they should use a generous amount, as it is there, for free, for their exclusive use and it might as well be utilized for the purpose of which--

"Sweetheart..." Bones' voice is slightly higher and softer, the sound of it is unusual, lilting as he whispers this endearment, as he his ripping open the packets, pouring out the oil into his hand, soothes: "It'll be alright."

He is of course, not concerned, not anymore. McCoy is now sitting between his legs (he never thought he would be on display like this for another) kissing one thigh and the other, now biting where he has kissed, now licking and sucking, at the same time a finger is working it's way inside of him. He makes a reach for McCoy's other hand, intertwining their fingers. Much better.

Their fingers are still grasping when McCoy adds another digit from the other hand inside him, then another. They only briefly let go when McCoy flips Spock legs up and he places them onto the shoulders. When their fingers finally reconnect he feels the delight (and an undercurrent of nervousness) radiating from Bones.

The sensation of anal sex is, admittedly, slightly uncomfortable at first, but then... "Okay?" McCoy pauses briefly.

"Yes."

It is now quiet next door, but they do not notice.

* * *

Later on they do it again... in the shower, then once again in bed...

* * *

Spock exits their apartment a few hours later, leaving McCoy still in bed, on his way to fetch the pair of them some much needed breakfast. At the same time their next door neighbor walks out of his door.

"Good Morning." Spock nods at the man, politely.

"It certainly is," the man replies back with a knowing smirk, before heading down the stairs.  
____________________________________________  
Stay tuned for Chapter 10...coming soon.


End file.
